More than England
by LaurelSilver
Summary: There is more to the British Isles than just England. Drabble series based around England, Scotland, Wales, N. Ireland and the Republic of Ireland, with appearances from other nations. Human names used, aus likely, triggers at the beginning of chapters.
1. Do you mind!

**Characters:  
Ludwig 'Germany' Bielschmidt  
Alistair 'Scotland' Kirkland  
Arthur 'England' Kirkland**

 **Pairings; none**

 **Summery; Alistair's World Meeting invite went missing**

* * *

The meeting is in full swing, Ludwig having angrily taken over. Currently, he is trying to present a piece on financing the EU, most of the nations not actually listening but playing on their phones, doodling or dropping asleep.

The doors swing open with a crash, the handles breaking dents into the walls. Alistair Kirkland, kilt pressed and shirt fully buttoned, stands there, glaring openly. " _So_ sorry I'm late. It would seem my invitation was misplaced."

Arthur refuses to looks at him, and Ludwig sighs. Arthur must have got rid of his older brother's invitation, the siblings sharing an address and most emails being sent to a shared UK email, not their individual ones. Ludwig makes a note in his diary to send all UK-related messages to individual addresses as well.

"Give me two minutes," he says, "You weren't RSVP'd, so you don't have a chair right now, I'll go fetch one."

"No need," Alistair dismisses, striding into the room confidently.

Before Ludwig can protest, Alistair has reached Arthur and pulled out his chair. Arthur yells as Alistair calmly moves in front of the chair and sits down heavily in Arthur's lap.

"Do you _mind_!" Arthur cries.

Alistair smirks. "Nope. Not in the slightest."

* * *

 **Yo  
Weekly updates, hopefully. Drop a review please, ideas/hints/suggestions welcome**

 **I own nothing  
-Laurel Silver**


	2. I shalt not want

**Characters:  
Alistair 'Scotland' Kirkland  
Arthur 'England' Kirkland**

 **Pairings; N/A**

 **Summary; Arthur is trying to teach Alistair to read**

 **Note; as the UK is one nation state, I headcannon that the representatives personify not only their nations buy populations within the state. For example, in this chapter Arthur is the educated upper class, Alistair is the working class.**

* * *

 _Kent, 1872_

"With… the… lord… as… my… shhh."

"Sound it out," Arthur encourages.

He's spent the last two years trying to teach Alistair to read. It's been tedious, but he's getting there. Slowly.

"Sheep?"

"No!" Arthur smacks Alistair over the head with the book.

Alistair whines, rubbing his crown. "Shepard?"

"There we go." Arthur opens the book, pointing to the sentence. "Start again."

"With the Lord as my shephard, I shalt not want. He lieth me down in green pasture, he leadeth me to still water that I may drink-"

Arthur cuts him off, smacking him with the book again. "You're supposed to read it, not recite it from memory!"

"It's not my fault you picked one of the most often-read books in Britain to teach me to read!" Alistair growls, "Stop hitting me with that, it's heavy!"

"Stop being illiterate!"

"Stop being a shit teacher!"

* * *

 **Kent; where Arthur probably lives  
1872; education became compulsory in the UK in 1870. However, this was only for under elevens. It takes Alistair around ten more years to learn to read, alongside the general working class population.  
Most often-read book; King James' Bible. Alistair is reading/reciting Psalm 23.**

 **I'll explain the nation state thing in better detail later.  
I actually picked a really bad time to start this; I have so many deadlines.**

 **I own nothing  
-Laurel Silver**


	3. Coming out

**Characters:  
Alfred F. 'America' Jones  
Kiku 'Japan' Honda  
Francine '(Nyo!)France' Bonnefoi (Mama)  
Arthur 'England' Kirkland (Dad/Lapin)**

 **Pairings; FrUK/FACE, AmePan**

 **Summary; Alfred has something important to tell his dad**

* * *

Alfred stands nervously, Kiku's hand clenched in his.

"Mama… Dad…" he speaks slowly. Kiku gives his hand an encouraging squeeze, and Alfred beams down at him. "Mama, Dad; this is Kiku. My… boyfriend Kiku. I'm gay."

Several long, heavy seconds of silence. Arthur stares at the pair, and Francine watches Arthur carefully. Arthur takes a deep breath.

"No!" Francine says hurriedly, "No, Lapin, don't!" At her words, Alfred's nervous demeanour becomes more frightened.

"Hello, Gay," Arthur grins, "I'm Dad."

Alfred and Francine groan.

* * *

 **I was flicking through the Total Dad Move twitter feed. Don't question me.**

 **In all seriousness, coming out is very scary. To any of you who need to come out to your family/friends/whatever, I wish you the best of luck.**

 **I own nothing  
-Laurel Silver**


	4. Unsatisfactory conduct

**Characters:  
Dylan 'Wales' Kirkland  
Alistair 'Scotland' Kirkland  
Arthur 'England' Kirkland  
George**

 **Pairings; British siblings**

 **Summary; George, a discharged soldier, is being retired to Wales**

* * *

 _London, 1986._

"Since when has _Wales_ been the place to send discharged soldiers?" Alistair asks plainly.

Dylan punches him firmly in the shoulder. The three brothers are wandering from Arthur's flat in London towards the Tower of London. Five ravens circle the tower.

"He can't be around London anymore," Arthur says, "And he's not being 'sent', he's retiring."

"But he _is_ discharged," Alistair says.

"Yes. Unsatisfactory conduct."

"Out of interest," Dylan says nervously, "What did he _do_?"

"Murder." Alistair says, eyes wide.

Arthur smacks Alistair upside the head. "He didn't murder anyone, don't worry yourself Dylan. He kept destroying television aerials."

Both Alistair and Dylan stop abruptly. A sixth raven joins the five around the tower.

"What?" Arthur asks, "We can't let George protect the crown if he keeps disrupting people's leisure time."

"Why was he destroying aerials?!" Alistair asks, "The _fuck_?"

"I don't know why. I don't speak raven."

"The fuck are you on about?!"

"Raven George," Arthur gestures to the raven handlers at the base of the Tower, "He's being discharged."

"You said he was a soldier!"

"Yes."

"A raven. As a _soldier_?!"

"Yes."

* * *

 **Explaination;  
Due to old superstition, there always seven ravens at the Tower of London. They are enlisted as soldiers of the United Kingdom, protecting the Crown. They can also be diecharged.  
Raven George is a real raven who was discharged for unsatisfactory conduct. He kept attacking television aerials, like above, and was retired to Wales.**

 **Short and sweet, sourced from Ultrafacts.**

 **I own nothing  
Birds scare me  
-Laurel Silver**


	5. Winter Wonderland - Sun and ice

**Characters;  
Flying Mint Bunny [a dog]  
Arthur 'England' Kirkland [aged 15]  
Antonio 'Spain' Fernandez Carriedo [aged 25]  
Leonora 'Romano' Fernandez Carriedo [aged 23]  
Turtle [a dog]**

 **Pairings; British siblings, het!SpaMano**

 **Summary; [From the Winter angst with a happy ending prompts]** **Ice breaks under the character but they're saved and there are blankets and hot chocolate and warmth.**

 **AU; Human, Rromani**

* * *

"F-M-B! No!"

Flying Mint Bunny skids on the ice, yapping merrily. The sickening crack rings out, and Arthur freezes on the river bank. A long pauses, then Flying Mint Bunny yips as he falls, the ice crunching under him, water splashing.

Without thinking, Arthur dashes after him, shoes skidding on the ice. He barely registers the ice still cracking as he nears the hole.

The water closes over his head, freezing cold hitting his skin and stabbing deep like knives. Gasping for air that doesn't come, Arthur thrashes, hands clawing at the dark, dense cold around him, thick coat waterlogged and heavy as it drags him down, Flying Mint Bunny treading water merrily just above him.

Something dark covers the light above him, and then Arthur's being pulled upwards by the front of his coat. The air hits his lungs and he chokes, throat tight and teeth chattering.

The stranger, his jacket is sunshine yellow, drags Arthur over the ice to the bank before dropping him.

"Are you alright?" the stranger asks, accent rolling the r's and bouncing on the vowels.

Arthur nods, trying to pull himself up.

The stranger grabs Arthur's scarf, untying it and dumping it unceremoniously on the mud. He unbuttons Arthur's coat, pulling it down and rubbing his hands up and down Arthur's arms quickly.

"Flying…" Arthur mumbles, jaw still trembling uncontrollably, "Flying Mint Bunny!"

"Huh?" the stranger turns around, looking out to where Arthur is pointing, "Oh! Doggy! Here doggy! Over here doggy!"

Flying Mint Bunny hops out of the ice hole, shakes most of the water off his fur, and pads over, tongue lapping and tail wagging as if plunging into negative temperature waters is the most fun a dog could have.

Arthur stares at the retriever, slack jawed. The stranger rubs Flying Mint Bunny's head. "He is cute!"

"He's a little shit's what he is," Arthur grumbles.

"Do you live nearby?" the man asks.

"About an hour away on foot."

"An hour!" the man seems shocked.

"I needed to get away from the siblings a while," Arthur says, "I usually take F-M-B on a long walk when there's arguments. I'm gone about three hours."

The man sighs. "My park is near. You will not get black feet then, we will warm you up."

"Park?"

The man pulls Arthur to his feet, pulling his coat back around him. The man's own dog, a squat little thing, struts after its owner. Arthur puts Flying Mint Bunny's leash on firmly and follows the man quickly.

The man lives, or is staying, in the field of a farmer just off the river. Several caravans stand in a loose, disorganised grid, the mud thick and slushy underfoot. The man's caravan is a brilliant white on the outside and brightly coloured inside.

A woman, heavily pregnant, snaps at the man as he comes in. She looks Arthur up and down, clicks her tongue, and heads down the caravan, shutting herself in what Arthur presumes is a bedroom.

"Forgive my wife. She is… fiery!" the man stutters on his English, helping Arthur out of his coat, "I will get you dry clothes. Please wait."

Arthur stands awkwardly on the doorstep, holding Flying Mint Bunny back from diving into the caravan still wet. Heat radiates from inside, torturously inviting.

The man returns with clothes, towels and blankets. "Take your shoes off, please."

Arthur pulls his shoes off, stepping into the caravan as the man gestures for him to. The man catches Flying Mint Bunny in a thick blanket as the retriever dashes inside.

Changing quickly, Arthur sits down. The man's clothes, a tank shirt and joggers [wifebeater and sweatpants] are too large on him, baggy on his hips and shirt loose. The man has also changed his clothes, only in joggers, showing off a well toned figure and sunny skin.

"Thank you," Arthur says quickly as the man looks up from wrapping up/playing with Flying Mint Bunny.

"I can not let you just sink," the man says calmly.

"You saved my life."

"I can not let you just sink," the man repeats.

Arthur frowns slightly, but lets it drop. "Arthur. Arthur Kirkland."

"Antonio Fernandez Carriedo! The beautiful lady is Leonora Fernandez Carriedo. And this is Turtle!" he holds up his dog, who sits merrily in his hands.

"Flying Mint Bunny," Arthur gestures to his own idiot dog.

"I put your clothes to dry," Antonio says, gathering up Arthur's wet clothes, "Do you like hot chocolate?"

Honestly Arthur prefers tea, but he's not going to be so rude to the man who literally saved his life. "Yes, hot chocolate is lovely."

Antonio disappears down the caravan. When he comes out of the room he'd put the clothes in, probably the bathroom, he knocks on the door to the bedroom, speaking in rapid Spanish to Leonora. He comes back to the kitchen, an open kitchen halfway down the caravan, and fills a small pan with milk. But instead of adding a chocolate powder, he scoops in two heaped spoons of a chocolate spread before igniting the stove.

"You are in school, yes?" Antonio strikes up conversation.

"Uh… yes. GCSEs," Arthur answers, still a little jolted by the chocolate spread in the milk, "Literature, language and history."

Antonio nods, obviously not fully understanding.

"So… England? Why are you travelling to England? Especially with a pregnant wife?" A little blunt, yes, but Arthur's curious.

"We want our baby to go to a good English school," Antonio says, "Good school."

Arthur almost laughs.

"I hope baby is born on Chrismas," Antonio says, "It would be magic."

"Do you have a name?" Arthur asks, derailing the conversation away from school, "For the baby, I mean."

"Jesús or Maria," Antonio says, beaming, "If they is a boy or a girl."

Again, Arthur almost laughs. Talk about generic Christmas names! "They're lovely names."

Antonio, still visibly bursting with happiness, stirs the milk in the pan. "Leonora!"

The bedroom door opens, Leonora almost stomping as she walks, the caravan shaking on its weak, muddy tethers. She sits down at the table, hand rubbing her swollen belly idly as Antonio passes her a steaming mug of the milk mixture.

Arthur accepts his own mug with a quiet "Thank you." The drink looks like a regular hot chocolate drink, pale brown and milky. It's sweet and a little nutty, burning Arthur's tongue.

Arthur stays for a couple of hours while his clothes dry off, warming up. Leonora's English is slightly stronger than Antonio's, discussing Shakespeare and typical Biblical allusions with Arthur as Antonio plays with the dogs and a knotted piece of rope. The early winter sun sets, pink and yellow dancing over the ice.

* * *

 **Taken from the 'Winter angst with a happy ending' from the tumblr blog 'all of the prompts'. Google the summary without the [square brackets] and it's the second option.  
I was going to do it all as one chapter, but this one came out really long and most of the rest will too. So I'm doing them individually when I don't want to revise anymore. Expect updates every few days. Also expect human AUs and a variety of characters. I've already planned them, including nyo, 2p and neko characters. **

**I own nothing  
Happy holidays  
-Laurel Silver**


	6. Winter Wonderland - Ta for the stollen

**Characters:  
Sean 'North Ireland' O'Murdach [aged 23]  
Alice 'England' Beilschmidt[aged 95]  
Ludwig 'Germany' Beilschmidt [died aged 63, should be 97]  
Gilbert 'Prussia' Beilschmidt [aged 99]**

 **Pairings; het!GerEng, Geman brothers**

 **Summary; [From the Winter angst with a happy ending prompts]** T **he character can't afford to pay for their utilities at the moment, and they're worried they may end up with no heat in winter, but their landlord/landlady is sympathetic and even invites them for a dinner.**

 **AU; Human AU**

 **Warnings; death mentions**

* * *

 _London, Christmas Eve_

Sean trudges down the stairs, a small roll of notes clenched in his pale fist. He's a skinny man, though it's hard to tell under the four thick jumpers layered in an attempt to keep warm. Almost-orange-ginger hair is hidden under the wooly hat forced down over his ears. His scarf is fairly loose, his bottom jumper being a turtle neck. The scarf is just there for moral support. Or something.

Sean knocks loudly on the landlady's door, stepping back and bouncing on his toes. Since moving to London, he's been struggling to hold down a job for more than a month. His recent job 'ran out' - he was a Christmas Elf in a twenty-four hour Tesco, and as it's already Christmas Eve he's no longer needed. Here's your paycheck, now fuck off you Irish twat.

And the paycheck is menial, just scraping minimum wage. Lot London-centric living wage, just minimum wage. All this money-balancing makes Sean wish he'd paid better attention in maths. But no matter good at maths he could be, he's still having to make major sacrifices. Like his heating.

His 'elf-wage' covers his basic rent, with fifty quid to spare. Fifty quid isn't going to cover electricity and gas bills over the winter. In these low temperatures, it possibly won't even last him a week.

The landlady's door opens, the little old lady scowling up at him. "Cutting it close, _again_."

"I only got paid an hour ago," Sean mumbles, "Just take the bloody money."

The landlady thumbs through the money. Heat wafts from behind her, and the smell of something sweet fills the air around Sean, teasing him as he can almost taste the sticky deliciousness, mouth watering.

"Where's your utilities?" she asks briskly.

"I've switched them all off," Sean says.

"The fuck have you done that for?"

Sean double-takes. As much as he's used to bad language, hearing it from a little ninety-odd lady in a pastel periwinkle pinafore and rollers in her hair is just something else. "I can't afford it. I've only got fifty pound to my name and no job."

The landlady looks him up and down, and sighs. "Get yourself in, you'll catch your death of cold with no heating."

Sean blinks dumbly as she stands back, holding the door open for him. He steps inside, the warm surrounding him completely.

"Take off your shoes. I'm afraid you'll have to sleep on the settee. I would, but my artheritis keeps giving me gip and I'm not suffering through that for someone who can barely pay their rent on time," the landlady says sharply.

"No! No, shit, ta' for letting me stay," Sean says, pulling his hat and scarf off.

"Yes, yes, do you want a cup of tea?"

"Yes please, thank you."

Sean peels his jumpers off, one by one, until he's left in just his elf Tesco shirt. They'd let him keep it as a souvenir. Isn't that nice of them.

He sits down, the landlady pouring tea from a fat teapot into a couple of mugs. "Milk, sugar?"

"Just a bit of milk please, thank you."

Tea made, the pair sit quietly, drinking. The flat is typically old-lady-cosy; plates sat in hooks on the walls, the furniture covered in crocheted throws, wallpaper and curtains covered in flowers. The news, Look South, drawls on the television.

"What are you cooking?" Sean asks politely.

The landlady's eyes widen, and she whips her head around, scanning the kitchenette. She lets out a sigh of relief as she turns back around. "Don't scare me like that - I thought I'd left something burning! There's a stollen in the oven."

"Stollen?"

"Yes. Stollen. That's what I said."

"It's just…" Sean stammers, "Most people make pudding, not stollen."

"You don't make pudding on Christmas Eve!" the landlady shrieks, "Are you mad?!"

"No, I'm Irish," Sean answers dumbly.

The landlady stares at him for several seconds before she cracks up, laughing hard in the back of her throat. Sean drinks his tea nervously as she calms down.

"You're a complete idiot, flat twenty two," she says.

"Sean," Sean introduces, "Sean O'Murdach."

"Alice Beilschmidt," the landlady says.

German baking and a Germanic surname? "You don't sound German," Sean says stupidly.

"No. My husband was," Alice says, nodding to a photograph on the wall.

The photograph is old, depicting her and her German husband. Alice's hair is longer, tied up in pigtails and her face is less wrinkled, but her glasses still perch on her nose. Her husband is tall and broad, hair slicked back and eyes piercing even in a black-and-white photograph. The pair are dressed up warm, the scenery behind them pale and snowy.

"Where is your husband?" Sean asks.

"Six feet under Berlin."

"Oh. Oh, shit, sorry, I should have realised."

"Don't worry. It was a good thirty years ago now," Alice sighs.

Sean frowns. "He can't have been very old."

"No, he wasn't. Road accident, the fax said. He was in Berlin, trying to visit his brother. They'd been separated by the Wall, and Ludwig moved to London for a new life. Lost contact with his brother. I tried to track the brother down when the Wall fell for some closure, but no joy."

Sean plays with his mug, the pottery still warm. Alice sighs.

"It's no good dwelling on the past, though. Besides, I can't be getting into long spiels - Doctor Who's on in five minutes."

Sean's ears prick. "Doctor Who?"

"Of course. It's a British tradition as strong as the Queen's speech, I tell you. I've only missed one episode back in nineteen sixty nine because I was in hospital popping my son out my bits."

Sean grimaces at her bluntness. Alice gets up, bustling around the kitchenette. She pulls the stollen out of the oven, leaving it on the stovetop to cool.

"Come along then, national schedules wait for no one!" Alice natters, half-dragging Sean over to the settee, facing the television which sits in an alcove in the corner. Just above the television in a shelf, seemingly organised into a shrine to Ludwig, with a few pictures of him, a cuckoo clock stopped on the time ten past nine, and a creepy, crudely-made wooden doll with white hair and red eyes.

Sean curls up on the settee, sipping his tea as the sixty second news starts, the presenter wearing a scarf of tinsel and reindeer antlers. Alice sits herself down, pulling one of the throws around her shoulders.

"Come to think of, when's the last time you ate?" she titters.

"I had a bowl of cereal for breakfast," Sean says. And now his fridge is switched off, so his milk will go bad. Great.

"No wonder you're so friggin' skinny! Stay right there!" she gets back up, sprightly in her old age.

"But Doctor Who-"

"Can wait! Unfortunately even Capaldi's too young for me! And married."

Sean snorts with laughter.

Alice cuts a thick slice of stollen, pouring cream over it before passing it to Sean and cutting herself a smaller slice.

"Ta'," Sean thanks her, digging in. The dense dessert is sweet with a warm spiciness to the aftertaste, the marzipan barely an almondy ripple through the heavy pastry.

Alice settles back down, the channel moving on to advertisements of Christmas specials, ironically starting with an advertisement for Doctor Who.

"Miss Alice?" Sean pips up.

" _Miss_ Alice, huh?"

"Mrs Alice, even. Why are you on your own on Christmas?"

"Why are _you_ on your own at Christmas?"

"Fair play. Mrs Alice?"

Alice chuckles. "Yes?"

"Was that your husband's doll?" he points to the creepy wooden thing sitting in the shrine, "Because it doesn't look very cuddly."

"His brother made it. It's modelled after his brother. Albino, apparently."

"That's actually pretty alright, isn't it. Mrs Alice?"

"Nosy sod aren't you?"

"Why haven't you retired yet?"

"Do you think being a landlady has a solid retirement plan? No. It's a load of shit."

"Huh. I'll be sure not to become a landlady."

"Good plan."

"Mrs Alice?"

"Shut up, Capaldi's on!"

And hundreds of miles away, in a Berlin care-home, a man sits in the corner eating a supper of stollen and gluehwein, accompanied only by a doll he'd made decades before of his brother, Ludwig.

* * *

 **I've put a link to the prompt list in my profile, under 'Winter Wonderland'. There are going to be links to as many sources as I can manage in my profile, in chronological order of when they appear.  
**

 **Tesco; a cheap shop open most of the time. A British Walmart. Sort of. I think.  
Living wage in London is higher than anywhere else in the country, because it's the capital (or something, idk I'm not an economist). Minimum wage is supposed to be higher in London, but isn't legally enforced as far as I understand.  
Sean being in flat 22; the Anglo-Irish treaty (essentially when North Ireland was first 'created' though it took a while and there are still issues now) was signed in 1922  
Child being born Christmas 1969; this doesn't refer to any nation in particular. But it's 69 because I'm immature  
Dolls; Germany and France are the main nations who produced and commercialised dolls. Also plays on the German woodcarvers stereotypes. I also read somewhere about dolls being made to children's likeness, but I couldn't find anything about it so don't quote me on it.**

 **Sean is based loosely on an old friend of mine. He tall, gangly and ginger, with a very thick accent that can be difficult to understand. He has a lot of tattoos, likes beanies, and flatly refuses to fasten the top buttons of his shirt. He swears a lot, but tells other people off for swearing because he forgets that he swears. He's stuck in his late teens, unable to become an adult as his economy isn't strong enough. Unlike the other British Isle redheads, he's mostly freckle free, and sunburns stupidly easily. He's usually Chill until you insult him, then he jumps from Chill to Super Fucking Angry in a split second.**

 **I own nothing. Please don't sue me I have no money and you will achieve nothing. I'm a delicate flower, leave me alone in my financial instability.  
-Laurel Silver**


	7. Winter Wonderland - Smuggler's Inn

**Characters:  
Oliver 'England' Kirkland [23]  
Allen 'America' Jones [24]  
Matthieu 'Canada' Williams [22]  
Lutz 'Germany' Beilschmidt [24]  
Nikolai 'Russia' Braginski [29]**

 **Pairings; N/A**

 **Summary;** **The character slips on ice and injures themselves, but someone helps them and it's a start of a friendship or romance.**

 **AU; Human, pub owner, 2p!verse**

* * *

Oliver drags his suitcase behind him, pulling his scarf tighter around his face and neck. His cousin was supposed to pick him up, but after an hour in the cold and twelve unanswered calls, Oliver has decided to just get directions to the Smuggler's Inn, the pub his darling cousin Allen owns, and walk there. The directions are easy enough; head left out the station until you reach the seafront, then right and keep going until you reach the Smuggler's Inn. There's a big sign, you can't miss it.

Except, despite the strong taste of salt in the air, the pavement is icy and slippery under Oliver's dress shoes, leaving him waddling cautiously with short, flat steps, only getting worse on the sea front. The roads have been gritted, the heavy snowfall having become little more than a brownish slush that splashes onto the pavement as car pass. Most of the snow on the pavement has been trampled down, creating a thick, white layer of ice.

Some family bustles carelessly by Oliver, knocking the small man into the wall in front of a closed trinket shop. He skids on the ice, falling straight down and landing hard on his tailbone.

The preteen boy of the family laughs out loud and the mother drags him away by the arm, not even gracing Oliver with an apology. The cold seeps straight through seat of his trousers, clinging damply.

Oliver huffs, grumbling a child-friendly curse as he tries to pulls himself up. His shoes, better suited to soft carpets and dewy gardens, slip repeatedly, and Oliver swears he can hear the preteen laughing again as he gives in, face down on the pavement, scarf-covered nose barely an inch away from the dirty health hazard beneath.

"Hey sweetie," a voice says, and a pair of hands grab him around the abdomen, pulling him up, "You okay? Where's your mom?"

Irritated, Oliver pulls his scarf down from over his face, batting the stranger away. "I am twenty three years old!"

"Oh. Sorry." The strange man is crouched next to Oliver, on the toes of thick boots with thin chains clipped over the foot and in the dips of the soles. His jeans are dark-washed and a little loose on his legs, his red jacket is unzipped over a plaid shirt, and a fuzzy hat is pulled firmly over blond hair. "Is the suitcase yours?"

"Yes," Oliver says a little sharply, pulling himself to kneel, cold water clinging to the shins of his trousers, "I'm trying to get to my cousin's."

"Wait- you're English?"

Oliver sighs. "Yes, I am."

"Are you Allen's cousin?"

"Yes," Oliver blinks at him, "Do you know him?"

"Yeah, I'm one of his residents."

"Residents?"

"Yeah. I live in one of the buildings he owns," the man frowns, "he owns three, just that way," he nods towards the Smuggler's Inn.

"We must be talking about different Allens. My cousin just owns a pub."

"The Smuggler's?"

"Yes."

"We're talking about the same Allen, then."

Oliver stares at the man, still sat on the ice. "I am confused and tired and jetlagged and hungry and cold and-"

The man laughs, standing up. "Do you want a hand, Allen's cousin?"

"Oliver," Oliver grumbles, holding a hand up, "Oliver Kirkland."

"Mathieu Williams. Matt will do." Matt pulls Oliver up, letting the smaller Brit cling to his arm for support. "I've got your suitcase."

"I can pull my own suitcase!" Oliver whines, reaching past Matt. His feet slip _again_ , and he ends up wrapping his arms tightly around Matt's waist before he falls flat on his face. Matt's slimmer than Oliver expected him to be.

"You're really not experienced with cold weather are you?" Matt asks plainly.

Oliver shakes his head, rubbing his face against Matt's side.

Matt sighs, pulling Oliver up and half-dragging him to a short wall. He lifts Oliver onto the wall, Oliver kicking the snow out of the way. Matt turns around, shoves the handle of Oliver's suitcase down and picks it up by the side handle.

"Come on then," he says, back still turned to Oliver as he half-leans on the wall.

"Are you- I can't just let you carry me!" Oliver splutters.

"Do you wanna walk?"

Oliver sighs, wrapping his arms around Matt's neck and carefully letting Matt move away from his wall, organising his legs around Matt's waist.

"We're only over there," Matt says as he walks, Oliver peeking up ahead of them, "You see that sign sticking out ahead?"

"Which one?" Oliver mumbles.

Matt pauses. "I didn't realise how many signs there are. Uh… the big wooden one, on the flagpole."

Oliver peers, heavy snow making it hard to see. A large shield shape seems to float about a hundred yards ahead. and as Oliver focuses he can just about make out the flagpole it hangs from. "Yeah, sort of."

"That's the Smuggler's. We're not going straight in, the stairs down are icy. We'll go round the back. We'll be there in two minutes either way."

Oliver hums. Matt smells sweet, and the tips of his curls are damp against Oliver's cheek.

The sign appears to be wooden, with an inlay depicting smugglers on the beach, "The Smuggler's Inn" painted in a fading gold. Matt turns down the alley just before they reach the sign, Oliver naturally clinging a little tighter to Matt's torso as shadow surrounds them. The buildings are tall, at least four stories high, and close together, almost seeming to lean over Oliver when he looks straight up at them, pale yellow bricks almost indifferentiable from the grey sky in the fading light and heavy snow. The ground is less icy, Matt's footsteps crunching through lumpy snow.

Matt has to put Oliver down to unlock the backdoor, the hallway light shining through the window of the door illuminating a large courtyard. Most of the snow has been swept away from the door, shoved into a lazy heap a few metres away, but more has fallen since then. Thankfully the door opens inwards, and Matt leads Oliver through.

Matt sits on a wooden bench, knocking the snow off his boots and unclipping the chains. "Allen's back room is just there," he points to the door down the narrow hallway, "It should be unlocked. If not, kick it really hard, his lock's a piece of shit."

"That's not very safe, is it?" Oliver titters, pulling his handle out of his suitcase too.

"He hasn't got anything in there," Matt says, "Just a bed and some changes of clothes. He officially lives in the attic, but he's often too tired for the stairs so he crashes in there in a morning. The lock doesn't really _need_ to be good."

"Still…" Oliver sighs, dragging his suitcase along. The door is thankfully unlocked. "Allen!" Oliver calls, leaving his suitcase at the ends of Allen's unmade bed. Crates of alcohol are stacked against the wall either side of a door hung open. Light falls from what at first seems to be square hole in ceiling, which on closer inspection is actually a trapdoor a room above, a step ladder stood underneath.

Oliver heads for the door, far too short to hope to reach the trapdoor even with the step ladder. "Allen!"

"Al!" a broad man, heavily scarred, hollers, "Who's the Pinkie Pie?"

Oliver is behind the bar of the pub, the large room full of noise. People gather everywhere, a couple of televisions playing subtitled news channels fastened above the wooden panelling of the wall. The music blares out of speakers mounted in all the corners Oliver can see. The room seems to be horse-shoe shaped, curling around the back room.

Allen, chubbier than Oliver remembers him, appears from around the corner, "Ollie! What are you doing here?"

"You… you invited me here!" Oliver shrieks.

"Yeah, but you're not supposed to get here until tomorrow."

Oliver pulls his phone out of his pocket. ""Hey Ollie. When you arriving again?" "The twenty-eighth, why?" "Just making sure I get you in the B&B right." What day is it, Allen?"

"The twenty-seventh."

"No, it's the twenty-eighth."

"It's the twenty-seventh."

"It's the twenty-eighth," the broad blond cuts in.

Allen stares at him blankly. "Lutz, why do you betray me like this?"

"The truth doesn't lie, Al," the blond, Lutz, answers with a grin.

Allen sighs deeply, slumping against the bar, rubbing at his head. "God, I fucking hate Christmas."

Oliver gasps.

"Don't start," Allen cuts him off, "I've been working my ass off all week, I'll pay the jar later, okay?"

"You _have_ help," Lutz says firmly, "You have two entire building sof help."

"Two buildings? What?" Oliver splutters.

A bell rings. Allen groans, running off and round the corner again.

"Your Allen," Lutz says, leaning over the bar to talk to Oliver, "Owns this whole building. This place, everything above it, everything either side, and the courtyard out back. That way," he points to his left, "The whole building is the cheapest B&B in the county. Shared bathrooms, patched up furniture, no wifi, no electricity, no pre bookings its first come first served. Mostly gets hitchhikers, backpackers, adventurers, you know the likes.

"The other way," he points to his right, "Massive homeless shelter. He's got connections all over the county to get the people off the streets and into work. No one stays there more than six months except the volunteers who run the place for Allen. A lot of them try to help the pub to, repatching the benches, fixing furniture, or they make donations later. It's the main thing keeping this place afloat.

"And above us," he points up, "Are cheap flats. Very few people stay long because of the noise and the reputation of the people who pass through the shelter and the B&B. So it tends to be people trying to turn their lives around, not a lot of money y'know. Only three people have ever stuck around more than a year; me, Matt and Nikolai."

"Oi!" someone knocks loudly on the wood of the bar, then snaps their fingers at Oliver when they get his attention, "Wine!"

"I don't work here!" Oliver snaps.

Lutz chuckles. He turns around and pulls himself up onto the bar, swinging his legs over the beer taps and hopping down behind the bar. "Allen's serving mulled wine. It's coming from this tap," he points to the third beer tap, "And a Ribena version for kids from here," he points to the fourth, "And plain red from here," he points to the second, "In case of spice allergies, hot Ribena has to made fresh. They're all a dollar fifty. Glasses are under the bar, tills are in the two corners, if they're rude like this douche don't give change. There are signs all over about manners. I'm getting Matt and Nikolai, even if Allen refuses to ask for help." He claps Oliver on the shoulder, heading into the back room.

Oliver grabs a chunky glass mug with a small handle. "Mulled wine?" he asks the impatient customer.

"No shit," the customer says sharply.

Oliver fills the mug, the deep red liquid hot with a sweet, spicy cinnamon smell Oliver loves. He passes the mug over, taking the two dollars and shoving it in the till, heading to serve someone else with a large mug. The first customers yells until Lutz appears from the back, pointing to a sign reading "Change only given in return for manners."

The customer swears, until Lutz growls at them, flexing his muscles 'casually', and the customer head back to their group of friends.

Matt appears from the back room, jacket and hat gone, fully revealing his hair tied in a bunch at the back of his neck. Another man, ridiculously tall, broad and slightly pot bellied follows him, hair dark and messy, heavy bags clinging to small eyes and puffy cheeks, a large nose between. He's heavily tattooed, colours and patterns covering his hands, arms, neck, and any slice of skin noticeable under his shirt as he swings himself over the bar as Lutz had, having to bow his head to avoid smacking it on the ceiling. He leans by the door casually, ignoring the cold, watching the bar.

"That's Nikolai," Lutz tells Oliver as he fills a mug with mulled Ribena, "He works a bouncer for a club in the tourist area. But there's not a lot of a tourists this time of year, so the club's closed. Anyone's causing trouble with you, just give him a wave. The other guy's Matt-"

"Yes, I've met Matt," Oliver cuts in before Lutz can go into anymore lengthy exposition, "He brought me here."

"He brought me here, too. Weird that."

* * *

The bar finally quiets down at around three in the morning, Allen practically collapsing against the bar.

"Go to bed," Lutz tells him firmly as Allen shuts the music off, the silence eerie after the ear splitting noise, "When's the last time you slept?"

"This time yesterday," Allen says, "I haven't got time to sleep."

"I will shove you in dumbwaiter if you don't get some sleep," Nikolai, accent heavy Russian, says.

"Fine, but only a couple of hours," Allen says, "I gotta clean out room seven, Oliver's coming up later."

"I'm already here," Oliver says gently.

"So you are. I gotta go clean room seven."

Matt drags Allen to the back room, shoving him onto the bed. "Room B and room C are clean. Lutz and me are staying in A. Oliver can stay in B or C until I can do a sweep of the B&B."

"You can't do a sweep of the B&B. You don't work for me."

"Go the fuck to sleep Allen."

Oliver pretends not to have heard the swearing as Matt comes back out. Lutz leads Oliver out a back exit to the bar, past a snooker table to the only heaters left on in the back corner of the pub. Cushioned benches are fastened to the walls all around the tables, Nikolai having sat himself right in the corner, feet up on a short stool, arms laid relaxed over the top of the benches. Lutz sits next to him, putting his feet up along the seats, leaning into Nikolai. Oliver sits politely on Nikolai's other side. Matt leaves the bar with a tray of drinks, passing the mulled Ribena to Oliver, a mulled wine to Nikolai, some dark drink to Lutz, and a hot chocolate for himself.

"Come sit in Santa's lap!" Lutz hollers, laughing as he slaps his thigh.

"Let that go already," Nikolai grumbles.

"Make me."

Matt sits nonchalantly on Lutz's legs. "You're an ass."

Lutz laughs again, sending Matt a wink.

Matt rolls his eyes, leaning forward to address Oliver. "You did pretty well, Oliver."

"I was just helping," Oliver mumbles. "I really need a sleep now."

"Well, you have a choice of directly above us, or the floor above that," Lutz says, "Allen won't let us help with the B&B. We're just going to have to be more persistent in our helping."

"It's good of you to help, though."

"Allen's done a lot for us," Matt says calmly.

"I didn't know he did… anything like this."

"He keeps it quiet."

"Lutz doesn't," Nikolai grunts.

"Eyyy," Lutz agrees.

"How he expected to entertain a guest, _and_ run a B &B, _and_ run the pub, only God knows," Matt says, "He always overworks himself."

"You don't?" Lutz and Nikolai chorus.

Nikolai reaches past Lutz, poking Matt carefully in the side. Matt bats his hand away with a mumble of "I'm fine."

"Who'd have thought Allen the troublemaker would become a good Samaritan?" Oliver mumbles into his Ribena.

* * *

 **Ending there before this spirals deeper into a full length AU. Which I still kind of want to write. This wasn't meant to get this deep.**

 **Oliver is tiny. This is canon. And he does not like the cold.  
Oliver ****constantly messages Allen online, and Allen humours him.  
In this AU, Matt and Lutz met on the street and became friends. When they tried to turn their lives around, Matt dragged Lutz to the homeless shelter, still in its early days. They found jobs, Matt at the zoo and Lutz in a big shopping centre, and moved into the flats above the pub to keep an eye on Allen. Nikolai just appeared one day, no one really knows where he came from except that he's Russian, scary and damned good at art. All three often work in the pub for no charge. They also often live in the same flat to create more room, especially in winter.  
The hotel rooms are numbered, flats lettered. Matt should be in A, Lutz B, Nikolai C, but they all stay in B. The rooms in the homeless shelter are assigned random shapes, but are rarely referred to by the shapes.  
Allen refuses to hire help.  
Lutz has Gaelic coffee, Matt has hot chocolate with extra chocolate syrup.  
Lutz was recently a Santa in the middle of the shopping centre.**

 **I've thought too much into this  
I own nothing  
-Laurel Silver**


	8. Winter Wonderland - Disney Princesses

**Characters:  
Erin 'Republic of Ireland' O'Murdach [aged 19] as the leprechaun sidekick  
Alistair 'Scotland' O'Murdach [name changed for AU, aged 23]  
Berwald 'Sweden' Oxenstierna as the bride  
Ludwig 'Germany' Beilschmidt as Snow White  
Soren 'Denmark' Oxenstierna [name changed for AU] as Ariel  
Alfred F. 'America' Jones [Fredka] as Tiana  
Ivan 'Russia' Braginski as Anastasia  
Maarit [random OC] the receptionist  
Gilbert 'Prussia' Beilschmidt as Rapunzel  
Elizabeta 'Hungary' Héderváry as Flynn Rider  
Feliciano 'Veneziano' Vargas as Pinocchio  
France as Belle  
China as Mulan  
Greece as Megara  
Turkey as Jasmine  
Spain as Esmeralda  
Austria as Cinderella  
Romano as the Blue Fairy  
Norway and Iceland as Elsa and Anna  
Finland as Jack Skellington**

 **Pairings; British Isles family, SuFin, GerIta, RusAme, PruHun, SpaMano**

 **Summary; The character can't return home because of the weather, but they find new friends thanks to that**

 **AU; human AU, past Gakeuntalia**

* * *

Erin throws her suitcase on the floor, swearing loudly. She slumps against the wall, sliding down until she's seated, knees curled into her chest.

Pulling out her phone, she types an email to her brother, making use of the airport's wifi. Probably the only positive to being stuck here is the wifi. It's not even warm in the airport.

"Flight cancelled because of snow. You'd think fucking _Finland_ would know how to handle heavy snow, but apparently not. Sorry. Go ahead open your presents and stuff, I'll open mine when I get back."

She sighs, pulling her phone charger from the front of her suitcase. Looks like she's got a lot of time to kill.

Alistair answers an hour later. "We'll save your presents, and the ones you sent ahead. Look after yourself."

Erin doesn't respond. A selfie and annoyed status on Facebook, same selfie and an abbreviation of the status on Twitter, and a scroll through Tumblr, and Erin's out of social media to waste time on. On to apps, then.

A man shouts drunkenly, and Erin looks up. A group of men in slutty Disney Princess dresses mill around the reception area, one aggressively trying, and failing, to speak Finnish. Even Erin can tell that this guy barely knows what he's saying.

Two of the larger men, a Snow White and an Ariel, try to drag the man away, a Tiana trailing after them apparently carrying everyone's bags and shoes. The man, completely plastered, is not even a princess but in a bride's gown, a 'Hen do' sash over his shoulder, bouquet completely destroyed. Another man, incredibly tall and in a yellow dress, tries to speak to the receptionist instead, deciding to use English instead of attempting a tricky language like Finnish.

Unfortunately, while his English is technically correct, and his voice surprisingly soft, his Slavic accent is very heavy. And the receptionist's Finnish accent is also very heavy. And neither of them seem to be able to understand the other.

Erin watches the two, giggling as they both become more and more exasperated. As the man begins to shout for someone, a 'Fredka', Erin gets up and heads over.

"Can I help?" she asks, putting on her best London Accent™.

"You are English?" the receptionist, Maarit, asks.

"Irish, actually," Erin corrects a little snappily.

"We need flight back to Sweden," the man says. Up close, he is covered in pale scars, almost lace like as they twist over his skin.

"Are flights to Sweden cancelled too?" Erin asks Maarit.

"All the flights are cancelled," Maarit says, "All of them."

"Do you know when they won't be cancelled?"

"Tomorrow will be the earliest, Miss."

"Even for Sweden? It's only a couple of countries away, not like it's over an ocean."

"We cannot fly in the snow, Miss. If the storm doesn't slow down it could be two days, maybe more."

"Oh for fuck's sake!" Erin practically yells. Maarit is shocked. The man giggles.

"There is no planes to Sweden?" the man asks.

"No. Not until tomorrow at the earliest," Erin says.

"Oh dear. I will just have to make Berwald buy me more alcohol," the man sighs, a broad smile brightening his face.

Erin laughs. "That's a great plan if ever I heard one."

"Is your plane cancelled too?"

"Yeah, I should be getting to Ireland. But no, the snow exists."

The man giggles again. "Ivan Braginski," he introduces, holding a hand out to shake.

"Erin O'Murdach," Erin takes the hand, "You don't sound Swedish."

"That is because I am Russian. I am here for a friend party."

"A stag do, I'm guessing."

Erin and Ivan step out of the way as some angry man storms up to the reception desk, shouting in Finnish. May grace be granted to Maarit.

"You cannot be staying in airport?" Ivan asks.

"Not a lot else I can do. I was on a bus for two hours before I got here, and there's no buses back either."

Ivan frowns. "Can you not stay in hotel?"

"I don't have a lot of money on me."

"Oy, Russian dicklord!" A noisy German accent yells. An albino dresses as Rapunzel comes swaggering up to them, "You can't ditch us for some girl at the airport, Alfred will be so mad!"

"Don't be rude, Gilly," Ivan says, smile widening, "Erin was helping me, yes?"

"What can I say, I'm a good Samaritan," Erin flips her hair.

"No flights?" Gilbert guesses.

"Not until tomorrow at the earliest," Erin says.

"Well, shit. Back to the hotel it is, then."

"Do you think we can get Erin in room?" Ivan asks, and Erin stares at him.

"At the hotel? I should think so. If not, we can sneak her into one of our rooms."

"Are you serious?!" Erin gapes.

"What can I say, we're a good Samaritan," Gilbert flips his hair, losing a flower that had been behind his ear. "Shit!"

Ivan giggles again. "Do you have your belongings, Erin?"

"Uh," Erin checks herself over. Her suitcase is next to her, her phone is in her coat pocket, and its charger is rolled up in her hand. "Yep."

"Yay!" Ivan beams, holding an arm out for Erin to take.

"Won't you be cold in just your frock?"

"No. I am Russian."

"Who are you meant to be, anyway."

"Anastasia. From Anastasia, obviously. Gilbert said Anastasia is not Disney Princess, but Fredka said girlfriends do not go to stag do but Gilbert girlfriend is, so Gilbert is being hip-o-critic."

Erin nods. "So it's a Disney Princess stag do?"

"Ah… Disney Princess plus a Disney Prince, Fox Animations Princess and a bride. And Pinocchio."

"Mostly Disney Princess, then."

"Yes. You can be Merida with hair cut short, if you want."

Erin laughs awkwardly. "I'm Irish, not Scottish. We don't really have a popular princess. I'll just be a leprechaun sidekick."

"Do not let Fredka hear you say. He recruit everyone to be sidekick."

"Is he dressed as a superhero?" Erin asks. Ivan hadn't mentioned any of them being dressed as a superhero.

"No. He is Tiana. He want to be Batman, though. He said to me, "Batman is Disney Princess!" but he is not Disney Princess. He tried though. He has Batman mask with him."

Erin snorts. "I've got a cousin like that."

Ivan grins. He leads her into a tall, grand building, kicking the snow off his boots.

"Holy fuck me," Erin says, gaping around the reception area. The ceiling, tall and domed, is painted with imps and fairies, the carpet is a thick red plush, the doors are golden archways.

"It is pretty, yes?" Ivan beams, "Please, you can leave bag and coat in my room, until we can book one for you."

"Are you fucking serious? I can't just let you pay for me to stay here?"

"Why not?" Ivan frowns, smile melting into a sad pout.

"Because I- you- I- can't…" Erin splutters, "I can't afford to pay you back."

"No worry. Hotel is more comfortable than airport, yes?"

"Well, yes, but-"

"Yay!" Ivan interrupts, beaming, "Come, come."

Erin follows him, still gaping, up a flight of stairs to his room. Ivan politely stands out of the way to let her put her bags down, commenting that his and Fredka's bags have been returned.

Back downstairs, he leads her into the bar, introducing her around the group. Tiana is Fredka, who quickly corrects him to 'Alfred' with a fond smile. Snow White is called Ludwig, Gilbert's younger brother, and his boyfriend Feliciano is dressed as Pinocchio in lederhosen too large on him, Ludwig blushing as Feliciano strikes a pose in them. Belle is called Francis, Mulan is called Yao, Megara is called Hercules, Jasmine is called Sadiq, Esmeralda is called Antonio, and Cinderella is called Roderich. Feliciano's brother, and Antonio's unofficial boyfriend apparently, had been the Blue Fairy, but retired for a siesta. Gilbert's girlfriend dressed as Flynn Rider is called Elizabeta. Ariel and the bride are brothers, Søren and Berwald, and Elsa and Anna are brothers Lukas and Emil. Berwald the bride is the lucky stag throwing the do, and is determined to show Erin a picture on his phone of his fiance, Tino, dressed as Jack Skellington.

"You can be Merida!" Feliciano suggests.

"She's Scottish, not Irish," Erin says, forcing a smile.

"Scotland, Ireland, it's all Britain, isn't it," Alfred says dismissively.

"No. No it really isn't," Erin says sharply, "In the same way America isn't British."

"Jeez, who pissed in your Lucky Charms?"

"You. You did."

"How could you?!" Berwald bellows.

"I didn't _actually_ piss in her Lucky Charms, Ber," Alfred sighs.

"I don't believe you."

"Erin, tell him!"

Erin scoffs. "I'm not defending you, asshole."

* * *

 **Drunk Berwald is amazing.**

 **Some background for this AU; the guys are all from wealthy families, having all attended the same prestigious Estonian boarding school. Ivan in particular likes to casually spoil his friends, even if he's only just met them (like paying for Erin to stay in the hotel).**

 **Never call an Irish person British. They don't like it.**

 **I own nothing  
I was very tempted to put Alistair 'as Merida' in the character list  
-Laurel Silver**


	9. Winter Wonderland - Motherly

**Characters:  
Dylan 'Wales' Kirkland  
Arthur 'England' Kirkland  
Laura 'Isles of Scilly' Kirkland  
Cymru [Dylan's dragon]  
Zanzibar [Laura's sea turtle]  
Alistair 'Scotland' Kirkland**

 **Pairings; British family, past British Empire**

 **Summary;** **[From the Winter angst with a happy ending prompts] The character decides to visit someone despite the snow and cold, and the journey is dangerous, but it's worth it in the end.**

 **This one's canonverse.**

* * *

Dylan stands nervously on the end of the dock, wrapped up tight in two jackets and god-knows-how many jumpers. Arthur watches him from the lighthouse, radio buzzing with white noise. Most Welsh sailors are inland, celebrating a short winter holiday with their families. Very few humans are confident enough sailors to brave these seas, waves higher than cruisers, winds cold and biting, sky so cloudy the ocean would by a swirling ink death trap if not for the lighthouse.

But Laura Kirkland is _not_ human, and most definitely _is_ confident enough in her sailing skills to brave a watery hell like this. Arthur would call her more insane than confident, but that only leads to his wonderful siblings picking on him for being unable to swim _those bastards_.

The kettle squeals next to him, the lighthouse still using a dented tin thing on a portable gas stove, and Arthur almost throws it across the room in shock. He worries incessantly about his little sister whenever he hears about her escapades. If she were more like the other blond Kirklands, nostalgic and semi-stationary _just stay on your fucking islands Laura_ , he'd be much less stressed, but no. She's a wild, untamable spirit of a girl, filled with an adventurous fire no ocean could quench, never mind the Bristol Channel.

Arthur pours the hot water over the Bouillon powder in the bottom of the flask, the vegetable stock forming a thin soup. Arthur hates the stuff, which has nothing to do with its French origins _shut the fuck up_ , but a lot of his siblings like it.

Dylan is practically clinging to the buoy pole at the end of the dock, wave after wave crashing down over and around him, Cymru curled defensively under his coat. Arthur pulls his wellies on, tucking his waterproof dungarees into the rubber boots. He hates the plastic-and-rubber 'fashion' he has to wear when 'playing mortal' by the coast, but has learnt the hard way that a stormy dock is not the place for a suit or jeans. And if he's honest, he's worn sillier fashions in the past. Powdered wigs; what the _fuck_ was he thinking?!

Coat zipped and sealed, hat pulled firmly down over his ears, flask safely tucked under his arm, and Arthur is ready to face the weather. Well, as ready as he's going to get.

The door flies out of his hand as he opens it, slamming open. Arthur wrestles the door closed, flask already slippery and difficult to hold. Rain beats down over the dock and Arthur's hat as he half-runs over the wooden boards to Dylan. Dylan's almost completely covered by waterproof rubber-fabric, an old knitted scarf tied over his face with Cymru's nose poking out the wooly folds for air, gloves thick and clumsy.

Arthur holds the flask out to him, almost dropping it. Dylan's head turns to him. Arthur can't see his look, completely shielded by worn-out wool and clouded glasses, but he can feel it. It's the same glare of _what the actual fuck are you trying to achieve you goddamned imbecile_ that he sends Alistair almost daily.

Arthur tucks the flask back under his arm, cupping his hands around his mouth. "You need to come back inside!" he yells over the wind. Dylan shakes his head aggressively. "You're never going to see her in this weather! Come back inside before you freeze!"

Dylan shakes his head again. Arthur grabs his arm, macintosh slipping uselessly through Arthur's fingers. The flask falls, too cold and wet to be caught, the thud of hitting the wooden deck unhearable over the storm. Arthur chases after it as it begins to roll away, scooping it up carefully, wrapping his arms around it like he's carrying a metallic baby. He heads back to Dylan.

"You'll catch you a death of cold!" he yells, Yorkshire vowels slipping into his speech. Alistair's always been better at talking sense into people than Arthur. Dylan ignores him, still clinging to the pole.

Arthur sighs. Even though Laura is geographically closer to him, not Dylan, and even though they have so little in common, Dylan and Laura are inseparable when they're on land. They're clearly siblings, with unruly blond hair and huge blue eyes, Laura being heavier freckled and Dylan wearing chunky glasses for his long sightedness. Laura visiting is one of the few times Dylan is rambunctious, running around the Kent mansion with Laura on his back, Cymru on their heels, singing shanties at the tops of their voices.

"Fine. Come back in when you're cold, I'll keep the kettle warm." Arthur shouts, storming off before Dylan can give any sign he heard.

Arthur has to put his entire body weight against the door to close it, falling ungracefully on his arse, the flask going spinning into the corner. He sits up, flicks the middle finger to the door. The door does not respond because it's a door.

Standing up, Arthur peels the coat off, water dripping to the floor around him. Fat drops of rainwater roll off his hat down his neck and he convulses, throwing the hat off. It slaps against the door, Arthur's hair stood on its ends. He shoots the hat the middle finger too. Much like the door, the hat does not respond. Arthur picks it up begrudgingly, hanging it on the hook with the coat. He tries to kick his boots off, the rubber squealing wetly as it rubs together, and he pulls them off instead, hopping on one foot to tear off the other welly. He crashes into the wall, knocking down a photograph of the ex-colonies in a snuggle-pile with their pets.

"For fucks' sake," Arthur grumbles, sat legs splayed on the wet floor. He hisses as water seeps through the heel of his thick, wooly socks.

Arthur rolls lazily over to the shoe rack, and pulls on a pair of slippers slightly too large on him but warm and fluffy. Probably Alistair's. He rolls over to the flask, too unmotivated to stand up, and rolls to the bottom of the stairs before he stands, begrudgingly dragging himself up the metal steps.

Kettle still warm, he pours himself a cup of tea and sits by the window. He can't actually see anything, rain beating against the glass until the world is just grey with a rhythmic flash of yellow. Up here, he couldn't see Laura if she somehow pressed her face right up against the window. Which is a silly prank she enjoys doing. Especially when he's trying to lead a meeting _little brat_.

Over half an hour passes before the door below slams open, making Arthur jump and spill tea on his jumper. "Dylan?"

"No, it's the wind," his brother retorts, and laughs. Cymru comes flapping up the stairs, cuddling straight up to the heater.

"Did you see Laura?" Arthur asks, half-running down the stairs.

"Well, I can't right now."

"What's that supposed to mean?!"

Laura giggles, her hands pressed over Dylan's eyes, his glasses in his hands. "It means I can't see anything at all; help me, Artie, I'm blind!"

Arthur rolls his eyes. "You're not blind and you know it, you idiot," he scolds, snatching the glasses off Dylan before he drops them. It wouldn't be the first time, "Quit fannying around, and get your wet clothes off."

"Yes, Mum!" Laura groans, pulling her rain poncho off.

"I'm not your bloody mother."

"Quit behaving like my mother then!" Laura unravels her bun, letting her hair hang in her more typical ponytail as she pulls her moulded wellies off.

"Quit behaving like a reckless child then!" Arthur snaps, "Honestly, what were you thinking, sailing out in this weather?"

"I was thinking "I want to visit my family like we'd planned"."

"We wouldn't have been disappointed if you didn't risk your _fucking life_ to sail out in the middle of a storm!"

"I can't risk my life. I'm immortal. Pretty much." Laura says plainly. "Don't get your knickers in a bunch, Mum."

"I'm not your _bloody fucking mother_!"

"Calm down!" Dylan says, patting both Arthur and Laura on the head. "We need to warm up, Arthur, didn't you make soup?"

"Only that Boullion bullshit you're so fond of," Arthur grumbles.

"That's so not a motherly thing to do," Laura comments.

"If you don't shut your whore mouth, I shan't make you any hot chocolate!"

Laura pouts.

"That's better. Now get your slippers on and get upstairs, I'll stick the kettle on. There's some rolled blankets warming behind the heater, and a tank with a battery filter under the window. Chop chop!"

Arthur heads back upstairs, pretending he didn't her Laura call "Thanks, Mum," after him.

* * *

 **Arthur can't swim; this is canon. It's because only 1 in 5 British adults learnt how to swim  
Bristol Channel; channel south of Wales  
Bouillon; vegetable stocks used in soups. French in origin**

 **Like Sean, Laura and Dylan are physically quite young. Not young enough to pass as Arthur's children, but Laura's physically in her early teens.**

 **Yes, I got Laura and Zanzibar's names from The Wreck of the Zanzibar. Go read it and weep.**

 **I own nothing  
-Laurel Silver**


	10. Winter Wonderland - Discovery of Smaug

**Characters:  
Dylan 'Wales' Kirkland  
Wellesley 'New Zealand/Maori' Cook (Welly) [physically about 5 years old]  
Cymru the dragon  
Arthur 'England' Kirkland (Father)  
Smaug the sheep [physicallly about 3 months old]  
Kumajiro the polar bear  
A maid**

 **Pairings; British Empire, British Siblings, Animaltalia**

 **Summary;** **The character finds outside an animal too small to survive the winter and they decide to help.**

 **AU; this is canonverse**

 **Warnings; xenophobia, colonisation, behaviours now considered child abuse, animal abuse**

 **Extra note; Wellesley uses the pronouns ia/ia/iaself/ia's**

* * *

 _January, early 1700's, somewhere near Kent_

Dylan stomps through the snow, lumps of ice clinging to his boots. Wellesley curls against his back, grumbling in Māori . Cymru has crammed himself up Wellesley's coat, the child much less used to the cold than ia's British carers, Arthur allowing ia to wear more layers to keep warm.

"You know your father doesn't like you speaking that," Dylan says gently, "You're already in trouble for running off."

"Don't care," Wellesley mumbles.

"You _should_ care. You'll be getting the cane _at least_ when we get home."

"Don't care."

Dylan sighs. He does his best to care for the young colonies, but being the softer carer of the group is a difficult task under Arthur's strict, almost controlling discipline. Tracking down children who have run off, tending to bruises from smacking and caning, and re-organise finances and taxes have become normal practice.

Wellesley isn't exactly a rebellious child, but ia's still difficult. Ia has never settled into the British mansion and is often terribly homesick. It's common for ia to run off, trying to find somewhere that feels like home, but England and Aotearoa are two very different landscapes. Dylan will sometimes spend hours trying to find Wellesley.

"When we get home," Dylan says shakily, "I'm confiscating your boots and outdoor clothes."

"Don't care," Wellesley mumbles, "Don't like them."

"I know you don't. But it'll be far too cold for you to be running off without them."

"Don't care. Do it anyway."

"And I won't come looking for you. You'll have to come back, all on your own, in the cold."

"Don't care. Won't come back."

"Then you'll be cold and lonely, won't you."

"Don't care."

Dylan holds back another sigh. Unfortunately, Wellesley is easily the most stubborn of Dylan's niblings, and holds grudges and promises the longest. If Wellesley says ia's going to run off and not come back, ia probably will.

The snow next to them shifts, and Dylan pauses. They're on a road by a forest, Arthur's Kent mansion and other city life an hour away. Whatever's under the snow, it's unlikely to be human.

"Why did you stop?" Wellesley whines into Dylan's back, "I'm cold!"

Dylan takes another step. The snow shifts again, a lamb's head popping out of the icy bank, bleating weakly.

"Uncle Dylan!" Wellesley cries in shock, "Uncle Dylan, Uncle Dylan!"

"It's a baby sheep," Dylan says soothingly, trying to calm Wellesley, "It looks like it wandered away from it's mummy, and look," he points to the branches above them, mostly bare, "The snow must have fallen off the tree, and it got trapped underneath."

"We gotta help it!"

"I don't think we can, sweetheart. It's so small and weak, I don't think it's going to make it."

"We gotta help it!" Wellesley repeats, kicking ia's legs to try and wriggle off Dylan's back, "We gotta try!"

Dylan sighs as Wellesley waddles determinedly through the snow. "Your father doesn't like pets in the house."

"He lets Kumajiro in."

"Kumajiro is a nation animal. This is a random sheep."

"We gotta help." Wellesley scoops the lamb out of the snow, the skinny little thing still bleating.

"Welly, sweetie, I think it's ill," Dylan says. How the lamb's managed to survive this long he isn't sure, but he doubts it'll even last the journey home.

To his surprise, Wellesley shrugs off ia's coat, wrapping it around the lamb. Ia bundles the weak thing up tightly, Cymru whining about the drop in temperature. Without ia's clothes, Wellesley is only in ia's breeches, boots and a jumper, ia finding most clothing uncomfortable for reasons ranging from 'heavy' to 'too many buttons' to 'too tight' to 'itchy'.

"Now _you're_ going to be cold!"

"Don't care," Wellesley says plainly, stomping ia way across the road and through a gap in the fence.

"Where are you going?"

"Back to Father's house. This is a shortcut."

"This is someone's field."

"They're not using it."

Dylan groans in frustration. He hops the fence, running to catch up to Wellesley as the child marches stubbornly through the snow, the lamb snuggled into ia's chest.

* * *

"What the _fuck_ is that?" Arthur demands.

"It's a baby sheep," Wellesley says plainly. Ia sits on a bench by the mansion's front door, a maid pulling ia's boots off.

"So you refuse to get properly dressed, refuse to do your schoolwork, run off, and return with an animal?"

"Yes."

Arthur glares at Dylan like the situation is somehow Dylan's fault. Wellesley kicks his indoor shoes off as soon as the maid has fastened them.

"Wellesley, don't be misbehaving," Arthur scolds, snatching the lamb from Wellesley's arms.

Wellesley cries out, clambering over the maid as ia reaches up to the lamb. "Give her back!"

Arthur tears the coat from the lamb, tossing it at the alarmed maid. The lamb bleats helplessly.

"I'm _not_ keeping a farm animal in my house," Arthur says firmly, holding the lamb up out of Wellesley's reach, "The thing is small and helpless. The only humane thing to do is put it out of its misery."

"I'm small! Are you going to put _me_ out of my misery?" Wellesley yells up at him.

"No, but you'll be in a lot of misery soon, child. You are in _so_ much trouble."

"Artie, don't torment ia!" Dylan says.

"Stay out of this."

"Give her back!" Wellesley cries, trying to jump after the lamb, "Give me Smaug back!"

"Don't name it!"

Smaug bleats as Arthur swings it out of Wellesley's reach. "Welly!"

The entire hallway seems to stop in shock at the voice. High-pitched and a little raspy, the lamb repeats the word "Welly!" over and over again.

"Give me Smaug back," Wellesley repeats, stood on ia's tiptoes to reach for Smaug.

Begrudgingly, and a little confused, Arthur hands the lamb down to Wellesley, who snuggles her straight into ia's chest, Smaug bleating happily.

* * *

 **New Zealand was colonised by the British in 1942  
Māori is the native language (and people) of New Zealand from before the British invaded [link to a website in the profile]  
Ia is a ****Māori pronoun meaning both he and she** **  
Aotearoa is the** **Māori term for New Zealand  
** **Nibling is a gender neutral term for niece/nephew**

 **Basically, Smaug became a nation animal after connecting with Wellesley over being small and feeling trapped/isolated/cold. The connections was legitimised by Wellesley naming her. That is totally how this stuff works.**

 **And from that day on, the pair were inseperable :3**

 **I own nothing  
-Laurel Silver**


	11. In 'the now'

**Characters:  
** **Peter 'Sealand' Kirkland  
** **Sean 'North Ireland' Kirkland  
** **Arthur 'England' Kirkland**

 **Pairings; AmeIre?**

 **Summary; Peter is angry about an advert. Sean is concerned about Peter's bad language. Arthur is hungover.**

 **Warnings for mentions of alcoholism, lots of swearing, and some violence.**

* * *

Peter storms into the room, throwing his school book at Sean's face. "The fuck is 'the now' supposed to be?!"

"What're you on about?"Arthur grunts.

"This bullshit advert!" Peter yells, holding his iPad up. An advert is ending, something about visiting Ireland.

"I gotta get my tourism business up," Sean says.

"Do I look like I give a shit about your tourism?" Peter snaps, "I don't give a shit about anyone's tourism. Fuck off with your adverts!"

"No. Fuck off with your bad language and shitty temper!"

"You can't talk, Sean," Arthur says.

"No! These bloody adverts don't even make sense!" Peter yells, and Arthur physically winces at his volume, "The fuck is 'the now'?! That's not a thing!"

"It is! It's about the mix of ancient Irish culture and modern Western culture," Sean says proudly.

"More like Erin's culture and Alfred's culture mashed together to form a snotty ginger prick!"

"There was no need for that," Arthur mutters.

Sean gets up, grabbing one of Arthur's bottles emptied the night before. Peter runs for the hills. Arthur groans, pulling his coat back over his head.

* * *

 **This started as me ranting about a 'visit North Ireland' advert that kept popping up on 8tracks when I'm trying to revise. This happened.  
I understand I shouldn't really be so angry about an advertisement, but 1. it's really distracting when I'm trying to condense a 500 page book into revisible flash cards, and 2. I can only listen to a vaguely Irish accent telling me about "what they call 'the now'" and "friendly locals" a certain amount of times I used to be a "friendly local" in a seaside town and believe me, we're not that friendly. We're sick to death of random people mobbing our city in the summer then the city becoming practically a ghost town in winter.  
Rant over.**

 **I own nothing. Please don't sue me I'm super poor and you will achieve nothing.  
-Laurel Silver**


	12. Winter Wonderland - The Look (TM)

**Characters;  
Erin 'Republic of Ireland' Kirkland  
Victoria 'British Isles' Kirkland (Ma)  
Sean 'North Ireland' Kirkland**

 **Pairings; British Isles family**

 **Summary;** **[From the Winter Angst with a happy ending prompts] The pipes in the character's house freeze and break and an unlikely person offers help.**

 **AU; human, family fallout**

 **Note; till=checkout**

* * *

The heat hits Erin's face as soon as the doors open, and she's never been so grateful for a supermarket in all her life. She stomps off as much snow as she can in the doorway, but the mat is already damp, and snow is trekked a good six feet into the market at least.

Erin nearly slips on the cold wet floor, nose beginning to drip under her scarf, as she grabs a basket. There's not a lot of stuff she needs. Cigarette papers she can get at the till. Alcohol. Tea. Maybe a microwave hand warmer if she remembers to wander that far into the market. Oh, and water.

Dropping a couple of discount red wines, left over from Christmas even this far into January, into her basket, Erin heads towards the far-end of the drinks aisle she hasn't visited since she moved out of Ma's house (or rather, was essentially thrown out after a huge row). She simply hasn't needed juice boxes or brightly coloured, falsely fruity bottles. And she definitely hasn't needed to buy water when it comes out of the tap for goddamned _free_ , why the fuck would she pay for it.

Well, if the water isn't coming out of her taps anymore, she sort of _has_ to pay for water. The horrible cold seems to have snuck up on her, leaving her with undrained pipes full of water ready to freeze. And she's the only one in her rented house, her _wonderful_ housemates having fucked off to spend Christmas with their families, lucky bastards.

Erin puts a pack of bottled water in her basket. Even this own-brand six-pack is two pounds more expensive than she usually pays for water. Which is nothing. Fuck frozen pipes.

She drags herself to the front of the shop again, box of tea on top of the bottled water, glittery hand warmer shoved down the side of the basket. An interesting combination.

Erin puts the basket down in front of the till-boy. "Pack of papers too, please."

"Erin?" the till-boy responds in shock.

Erin looks up at him, pulling her hat back out of her eyes. "Sean? Why are you here?"

"I work here," Sean gestures to his uniform, a faded and probably second-hand polo with the shop's logo on the breast and a pair of jeans, "Why are you here?"

"I needed alcohol."

"And water?"

"Don't fucking question me."

Sean raises a thick Kirkland eyebrow at her. "I just did."

"Yeah, well, fuck you. Just scan the shit and I'll fuck off, okay?"

"Someone's in a mood."

"I'm fucking cold, Sean! And I want my fucking alcohol already."

Sean puts the unscanned bottle of wine down, simply sending her The Look™ over the till. The Look™ was something Ma had nailed, able to make Erin and the rest of her siblings spill every misdeed they had ever committed in one teary, garbled apology. And now, apparently, despite looking nothing like Ma, Sean has perfected The Look™.

"My pipes have frozen," Erin sighs, "I've got no water, and I'm the only one in the house until next week. I want to be able to make my fucking tea."

"That wasn't hard, was it?" Sean says dryly.

"Fuck off. Just do your fucking job already, before I complain to your manager."

"Alright, alright! Am I not allowed to be concerned about my older sister's wellbeing?"

"You never fucking have been."

"Yes we have. You know damned well you could come home to visit."

"No I couldn't."

"Yes you could. You've only gotta apologise-"

"That's not fucking happening," Erin interrupts,

"Eire-"

"No."

"It wasn't-"

"No."

"If you-"

"No."

"Eire, please-"

"No. End of fucking story, get back to work."

The siblings stare at each other over the till, Erin ready to leap over the till and smack Sean senseless, Sean shrinking in defeat.

"Fine. But the offer's there."

"I don't give a shit."

"You stubborn arse."

"Should you be insulting your customers, Sean?"

Sean doesn't answer, turning the wine bottle over in his hands. He sweeps it over the scanner, the barcode facing completely the wrong way.

"It won't scan," he says plainly as he tries another couple of times, "Oh well." He puts it down in the baggage area, grabbing the next bottle.

That bottle doesn't scan either. Nor the tea. Nor the hand warmer. Nor the bottled water. Sean takes down a couple of packets of cigarette papers, a bag of tobacco, and a box of cigarettes. And again, they don't scan.

"Do you need help with your packing?" Sean asks sweetly.

"No," Erin stuffs the items into her shoulder bag, "Won't you get in trouble for this."

"My manager's on break right now. What he doesn't know won't hurt him."

"But won't it show up on the system. A bunch of stuff disappears, and none of it was scanned?"

"Stuff gets stolen all the time."

"Including the cigarettes from behind the till?" Erin attempts The Look™. It isn't as effective as Sean's.

"The system always bugs up in the new year, takes a little while to work again," Sean says, running a hand over the till, "Things fall through the system, it's normal. Quit worrying, would you?"

Erin sighs, throwing her bag back over her shoulder. "You don't need to this."

"It's hard enough living on your own. Now sod off before I call security."

Erin nods, leaving with an awkward, "Bye." Outside, she lights up one of the cigarettes, pulling her scarf down to smoke it. Inside, Sean reorganises the cigarettes he just allowed to be basically stolen, the lie still tight in his throat.

* * *

 **Sean will probably get disciplined if his manager realises he let someone 'steal' stuff**

 **R.O.I is part of the British Isles, which encompasses R.O.I and the UK. But R.O.I is _not_ part of Great Britain. Don't get them confused.**


	13. Winter Wonderland - French for Beginners

**Characters:  
Francis 'France' Bonnefoi  
Alistair 'Scotland' Kirkland [the homeowner]**

 **Pairings; British family, Auld Alliance (ScotFra)**

 **Summary;** **[From the Winter Angst with a happy ending prompt] The character gets lost in a snowstorm but stumbles upon a pleasant place to hide from the weather.**

 **AU; human**

 **Note;** _italics_ **signify it is said/written in French**

* * *

Francis swears loudly, his tyres skidding on the icy road. Snow falls densely in every direction, a treacherous winter wasteland.

The car skids, Francis turning the wheel almost erratically as he tries to keep it under control, to no avail. Rubber slides on cruel ice, the heavy car sliding straight into the snow-filled ditch.

Air-bags blow up in Francis' face. The seatbelt tightens on his shoulder and collar, choking him. His foot slams into the gas pedal, the car revving uselessly, front wheels buried in thick snow, back wheels suspended in midair.

Francis takes a deep breath, pulling his foot off the pedal. The rev quietens to the hum of the engine, and Francis takes a deep breath as he pulls himself up, the seatbelt no longer strangling him.

He opens the door, unfastening the seatbelt and climbing out. The car sinks slowly as he stumbles over the open door. His clothes ripple in the wind, his hair tie stolen in the strong gust.

Francis slides off the door, feet sinking into the snow right up to his knees. He stomps through it, cold attacking every inch of his skin, breath like smoke as the wind whips it back into his face.

Snow has already begun to build up on the back of his car, and he forces it open. Francis pulls out a large, thick coat bunched up next to his suitcase. The suitcase he'll have to leave for now; he has no idea where he's going to go, and the last thing he wants is to be dragging a suitcase along with him.

Francis stomps his way along the road. There are tyre tracks, only one set, so clearly someone's been here. He can only hope he's heading in the same direction they were. Freezing to death on a backroad somewhere in North Scotland isn't exactly the way Francis wants to go.

The road winds through the woods, getting narrower and more treacherous. On some sharper corners, the tracks skid off the road and onto the mud banks, but the strange lumps in the snow around the corvers suggest that this is normal. Early roads weren't really designed to take cars.

Francis pulls the thick coat tighter around him. His feet are numb and heavy, his fingers too frozen to feel, his ears so cold they're painful. He pauses, and steps into the steadily filling rut left by whatever vehicle had been there before. While his feet are still cold and the flattened snow is slippery, it' still easier to deal with than crunching precariously through the built-up white.

Eventually, through the trees, an orange light flickers, and Francis almost whoops in relief. If he craned up his head, he'd be able to make out a thin, grey thread of smoke high above the trees, but the limited warmth of the coat is too much of a salvation for him to sacrifice.

Francis follows the road with more vigour, accidentally kicking snow into the ruts. He rounds the corner,the house coming into full view. It's a squat stone cabin, old and almost quaint under the snow. Replace the tyre tracks with animal tracks, and it would look like Francis had walked straight into a Christmas card.

The tyre tracks lead up to worn-out truck, mostly faded green with a red driver's door. A large plastic sheet covers the windscreen, held down under the closed doors, windowscreen wipers left stood up. Several inches of snow sit in the large space in the back, a dent in one corner where something must have been.

Francis steps up onto the front porch, icicles dripping above his head as he knocks firmly at the front door. Almost cutely, the door is wooden, with a metal bell hanging next to it without a chain to ring.

No answer. Francis knocks again, a little louder. Silence, and he knocks again.

Heavy footsteps pace to the door, hurried and aggressive. Francis steps back slightly, remaining under the porch, as the door is almost thrown open.

The homeowner is a hulking giant of a man with wild red hair and fiery green eyes, orange freckles glowing in his skin like a shower of hot sparks. He takes up the door with his broad stance and broad shoulders, glaring down at Francis.

"Aye?" he grunts.

"My car has broken," Francis explains in muddled English, "It is in snow."

"You're stuck? Or you drov' ov'er?"

"What?"

The homeowner narrows his eyes, leaning further out of his house. "Did ye go off t' ro'd?"

"What?" Francis can recognise the man's speaking English, but his thick accent deepening his vowels and harshening his consonants makes him hard to understand. " _Do you speak any French?_ "

The man shakes his head. "Do you," he points to Francis, "Want me," he points to himself, "To call," he holds a hand up to his head, pinky and thumb extended, "For a mechanic?" he mimes driving, then pauses, unsure how to portray 'mechanic'.

Francis nods. "Can I come inside?" he points into the house.

The man nods. "Tek' off yer shoes an' tha'," he says, gesturing to the shoes and coat.

Francis steps inside, almost groaning at the rush of heat. His cheeks flush red at the sudden temperature change. He pulls his shoes off, melted snow having soaked through his fashionable shoes and into his socks.

Looking around, the front door leads straight to an open living room and dining room. A fire roars, an armchair pulled up close to it. Francis heads over quickly, sitting down in the armchair with his hands reached towards the fire. Snow clinging to his hair melts, dripping down the back of his neck and making him shiver. The homeowner stands by a table tucked into the curve of a metal spiral staircase, an old-fashioned two piece phone bolted to the wall. He talks down it sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Opposite them, the wall is completely taken up with bookshelves, and the shelves are covered with not just books but puzzles, craft kits and miscellaneous wicker baskets of stuff, ranging from coloured pencils to scrap wool to disorganised tools. The place is fairly tidy: shoes by the door, coat on the hook, everything else on the overflowing bookshelves. A large dining table sits in front of it, covered in scraps of patterned fabric. A plastic box is shoved under the table, water soaked into the carpet around it - the box has been outside recently, and is probably what left the dent in the snow on the truck.

The homeowner slams the phone down with a noisy, sharp curse, and Francis jumps. The man looks over at Francis, and frowns. He heads into the next room, the kitchen judging by the stove visible through the open door, and reemerges with a wooden chair. He puts it by the fire, grabs Francis by the upper arms and moves him to the wooden chair.

He turns away again, heading to the bookshelves. He stands on his tip-toes to search the top shelves, picking out three books, and another from a bottom corner. He flicks through the three from the top shelf, looking for something, and writes something in the fourth book.

Francis watches him flick back and forth through pages, scrawling intently for several minutes, hissing and grunt occasionally. The homeowner tears the page he was writing on out, and writes again, copying from the first page. He tears the new page out, and heads back over, the four books in a stack under his arm.

The homeowner holds the page out to Francis, and Francis takes it, confused. The man's handwriting is all capitals, a note written in broken, mediocre French;

" _I am scared that the mechanic not drive in bad snow. He would not be outside until Wednesday._

" _I have a guest room, but my brother lives sometimes there, so his clothes and toys are inside there. I cannot live them somewhere different, but you are greetings to live here._

" _I am called Alistair Kirkland, and I am a caretaker for the park. I think you am lost, because the park does not often have guests at winter."_

Francis can't help smiling at the attempt. The books Alistair has brought over are now stacked at his feet; French for Beginners, Teach Yourself French and a French Dictionary. All three appear to be aimed at children, but Alistair doesn't seem to be embarrassed by the cartoon and bright colours.

"Francis Bonnefoi," Francis introduces, reaching a hand out to shake Alistair's, "I work for Mode, the fashion company. I tried to get to an airport."

Alistair nods, shaking Francis's hand. His grip is firm. "You've gone complete' the wrong way. No airports for 'uhrs away."

"I promise you will get paid for this," Francis says honestly.

Alistair pulls a face that Francis, despite his fine-tuned intrapersonal skills, cannot read. His hand drops, and Alistair picks up the French for Beginners book, curling up in his armchair to read.

* * *

 **Alistair's note is meant to read;  
"I'm afraid the mechanic can't drive in the snow. He won't be out until Wednesday.  
"I have a guest room, but my brother sometimes stays there, so some of his clothes and stuff are there. I can't keep them somewhere else, but you're welcome to stay there.  
"I'm Alistair Kirkland, and I'm the park caretaker. I think you're lost, because the park doesn't usually have guests in winter."**

 **Random headcannon;  
Francis is a perilous driver. Think _A la Francaise_ by Wonderneepoos.  
Alistair flits through hobbies a lot. He can also be a bit of a hoarder, as he'll often return to a hobby. The bookshelves in his home are covered in stuff to keep himself occupied with, and some of it is hella old.**

 **Languages are hard  
I own nothing  
-Laurel Silver**


	14. Winter Wonderland - Dogs and humans

**Characters:  
Winston [Neko!England]  
Ludwig 'Germany' Beilschmidt [the broad human/Luddy]  
Feliciano 'Veneziano' Vargas [the second human]  
Geld (Ludwig's dog; golden retriever puppy)  
Rot (Ludwig's dog; rust-coloured sausage/Weiner dog, wears a green and white ribbon around her neck)  
Schwarz (Ludwig's dog; German shepard, the oldest of the three dogs)  
Gilbird [feathered abomination]**

 **Pairings; GerIta**

 **Summary; The character ends up without a place to stay in winter, but someone helps.**

 **Note; from Winston's perspective. Uses things cats hate (hoovers/vacuums, vets, dogs) as swear words. Doesn't speak 'human', but animals can understand each other.**

* * *

Winston pads cautiously though the awful white fluff. It's very cold and hurts his paws, but he needs to find somewhere to sleep. Or some food. Or both. Hoovers, he hates the cold!

A car zooms past, splashing sleet onto the pavement. The cold water-and-snow-and-mud hits Winston like a heavy slap, and he darts away, straight down a random driveway.

"Hoovers!" Winston plops himself down on a flower bed, the windowsill above having sheltered it from the snow. He leans down, trying to clean himself up. The ice is cold on his tongue, and the mud has to be the vilest thing he's ever tasted. His fur now smells pretty gross, too.

"Oh, vets! Vets-vets-vets-hoovers-dogs-hoovers!" he yells, trying to spit a clump of ice out of his mouth.

"Cat!" a gruff voice barks from the house behind him, "Cat-cat-cat-cat-cat!"

No. Hoovers no. Winston isn't sticking around with that noise.

Two more voice join the first, one even gruffer and one slightly higher, both just as loud and chanting exactly the same word. And people say cats are Satanic.

Bright light from next to him, as the door to the house opens. Human footsteps crunch heavily through the snow, and the human appears carrying a large electric lantern. The human is broad, with a long, dark coat and his hair slicked back.

He crouches down on seeing Winston, holding a hand out to give his head a quick scratch. Winston allows the human to pet him. The human is a little heavy-handed, but his hands are warm.

The human picks Winston up, and Winston gives a yelp of surprise as his paws lose the floor. He's never liked being man-handled.

But inside the house is warm too, and Winston purrs without even meaning to. The triple chant of "Cat!" escalates in sound, and the human speaks firmly. Two of the voices stop, but one, the first bark if Winston recognises it right, continues.

Another human voice. The human passes Winston to the new human, and a strong smell of cooked meat fills Winston's nose, and his purring escalates.

Winston flicks his tail about as the new human carries him into the kitchen. The human carries him to the fridge and opens it, pulling a few things out and putting them down on the side. He then replaces several of them, leaving only a metallic package that makes scrunching noises every time the human touches it.

The human unwraps the parcel, taking out one of the pieces of its contents and holding it up to Winston's mouth. Winston dives on it as best he can, still being held by the human. The meat is a little chewy and cold, but tasty and so satisfying after several days without food. The human makes those annoying human noises, patting Winston's head.

"Stop it and feed me," Winston demands, looking up at the human. The human makes another annoying human noise, rubs Winston's head and passes him another piece.

This happens several more times, the human refusing to stop with the noises. The broad human returns, and the humans talk in their human language. One of the dogs, a big old thing with dark fur, follows the broader human, sitting loyally by his master's side, as dogs do.

The broad human reaches for Winston, but doesn't take him. Instead, he pulls at the collar Winston had forgotten he still wears. He can still remember his previous humans putting it on him, one having to hold him still while another fastened the horrible thing around his neck. Why humans feel the need to do this, Winston still doesn't know. Possibly how humans mark their territory.

The second human feeds Winston another piece of meat, adjusting his hold until he cradles Winston like a baby. Winston chews at the meat, vaguely aware of the broad human walking away. His footsteps are quite heavy, and accompanied by the padding pawsteps of the dog. The second human bounces Winston up and down, making more human noises, but Winston lies there, allowing it. When humans provide food, Winston is prepared to put up with some bullshit. Some.

As the broad human begins to make loud human noises, the second one carries Winston into what appears to be the living room. He rummages around in a box on the floor for a while before sitting down in a big comfy chair, putting Winston down on his lap.

The living room is fairly simple; organised, no fancy decorations aside from a wooden cuckoo clock, the coffee table piled with books with a couple of mugs and a dog chew toy. A lot of blankets and cushions, some pulled into a corner, probably for the dogs, quite a few on the sofa. The television is mounted on the wall opposite the sofa, the cuckoo clock behind the sofa, a pendulum swinging back and forth underneath it. In the corner stands a birdcage, some feathery abomination inside staring at Winston from behind the bars. Along the wall between the birdcage and nest stand three kennels, a puppy laid in the bottom of one, gazing up at the second human with big, round eyes. The third dog, a small female with a ribbon around her neck, is laid on a pillow, chewing on a toy.

Winston surveys the room with the prestige of a king, sending glares to both dogs and the bird.

"Master sent me in the kennel because of you," the puppy whines.

Winston doesn't grace him with a response.

The second human rattles about with something. And then, Winston feels it. Sharp bristles digging through his fur, scraping his skin and pulling.

"That hurts, you clumsy imbecile!" Winston hisses.

The human makes panicked human noises, rubbing Winston's head. Winston purrs, settling back down. The attention to his crown and ears makes the tug of the brush marginally more tolerable, though Winston still wriggles if it gets too close to his tail.

The broad human returns, talking to the second human. While Winston can't understand human noises, the second human sounds upset, and the broad human exasperated.

"Please!" the feathery abomination squawks, "Please Luddy keep! Please Luddy keep!"

The broad human sighs and crouches, pulling Winston's collar again. The second human drops the brush, massaging Winston's ears and head gently, and Winston's purring only gets louder.

"Yay!" the squawking continues, "Luddy keep! Keep, keep! Yay!"

The broad human stands again, something shiny in his hand. The second human picks Winston back up, cradling him again.

"Why are you hal," the second human mewls.

"What?" Winston retorts.

"Hazel hearted black hole."

"What are you on about?"

"Life is like a not."

"That doesn't even make sense!"

"Double dead vaccum cleaner, ecto crossdressing medic cosplay. Flock femininity. Jump."

Winston stares at the human, who continues mewling random nonsense and making happy human noises. The broad human sits down on the arm of the armchair, pulling a blanket around the smaller human.

* * *

 **Quick explaination;  
Winston ends up meowing in the cold outside the Bielschmidt-Vargas house.  
Ludwig finds him, brings him inside  
Feliciano feeds him meat leftovers from their Christmas Dinner, then brushes him with a soft dog brush  
Ludwig calls the (landline) number on Winston's collar to find his family has moved away, leaving Winston behind  
Feliciano begs Ludwig to keep Winston, Gilbird parrots him  
Ludwig complies  
Feliciano meows at Winston, but it doesn't make any sense to Winston**

 **Animals can understand each other, even animals that imitate humans (e.g. Gilbird). That is totally how it works.**

 **Yeah, idk either  
-Laurel Silver**


	15. Winter Wonderland - Winter Wonderland

**Creative title is creative.**

 **Characters:  
Paula 'Wy' Delprat  
Erland 'Ladonia' Oxenstierna  
Peter 'Sealand' Kirkland  
Edwin 'Kugelmugel' Edelstein  
Alistair 'Scotland' Kirkland (Uncle Haggis)**

 **Pairings; SeaWy, British family**

 **Summary; [From the Winter Angst with a happy ending prompts] There's no snow and the character is upset, but someone helps and creates a winter wonderland for them.**

 **AU; Canon, magic**

 **Note; Edwin is genderneutral and uses singular they/them/their/themself pronouns.**

* * *

Paula swings idly in the hammock just outside her house, whistling a tune. Erland and Peter have retreated into the shade. Edwin lays in the sunshine, drawing something in their journal.

"I'm too hot!" Peter whines.

"Do you ever shut the fuck up about the temperature?" Paula snaps.

"Not when I'm too hot!"

"Or too cold," Erland adds, "Or when it's raining. Or snowing. Or windy. Or dry. Or sunny. Or cloudy-"

"Alright, alright!" Peter pouts, shoving Erland.

"I think all weather's beautiful," Edwin comments.

"No one asked, you pretentious arse," Paula and Peter chorus.

"The sun has some beautiful light," Edwin prattles on, "That looks totally different depending on what it's shining on."

Paula and Peter groan loudly, and Erland pulls a face, too polite to tell Edwin to shut up.

"And snow has such a pretty aesthetic, with all its crystals and footprints-"

"And coldness and numb hands and shovelling paths out to get to school," Peter interrupts.

"But you can build snowmen in it and stuff," Paula says.

"Not worth it. Not worth it at all."

"Very worth it, Peter," Edwin says, "Stop whining."

"Says the Austrian."

"Rude."

"I've never had snow here," Paula says idly, "So I know jackshit about it."

"What?!" Edwin sits up sharply, "It's never snowed here?"

"Don't be stupid, it's Australia," Peter says, "It doesn't snow in Australia."

"First of all, we're in the fucking Principality of Wy," Paula snaps, "Secondly, Australia does get snow sometimes. Mostly in the north."

"But this Australia, it's too warm for snow."

"That's not how weather works. You should know that, constantly bitching about the weather."

"If you weren't safely in the sun I would whoop your goddamned backside!"

Paula rolls her eyes, settling back into her hammock. Edwin creeps into the shade, perching themself between Erland and Peter.

"Can you believe it's never snowed here?" they whispers.

"It's Australia," Peter repeats.

"This place would look so pretty in snow," Edwin sighs.

"You'd find shit pretty. Literal shit."

"Peter!" Edwin gasps.

"Edwin!" Peter replies sarcastically, expecting Edwin to lecture him.

"You can do magic, can't you?"

"No!" Peter says quickly, alarmed.

"Yes you can, you're English!"

"First of all, I'm from Sealand, not England. Second of all, that isn't how magic works."

Edwin's face falls. "I thought we could surprise her. I had a vision-"

"Of course you did."

Edwin stands up, heading back into the sun without a word, sitting back down a decent distance from the pair.

"I think you upset them," Erland whispers to Peter.

Peter just shrugs.

* * *

Peter, being borne of a British Navy fort, is naturally an alert person. So he wakes up as soon as Erwin unzips their sleeping bag, and can hear the muffled footstep from their place on the floor of Paula's room to the door, then along the landing and downstairs. The front door closes, and Peter slips out of his own sleeping bag, Erland and Paula still sleeping soundly.

Edwin lugs something outside, swinging it around Paula's yard with a faint hissing noise. Fake snow. Where they got the fake snow from, Peter hasn't a clue.

Peter sighs, grabbing his phone and texting the number listed under 'Uncle Haggis'; "What kind of magic would it take to produce snow in Australia?"

It takes barely ten minutes for Alistair to respond. It's about midday in the UK, so Alistair's probably making something to eat (read: setting the kitchen on fire).

"Temperature negation and cloud manipulation. Mostly temperature. Bad idea though, fucks with the ecosystem and drives conspirators insane." Alistair sends back.

"But if I only did it a little bit? Like just in one yard?"

"You could get seen, and tha REALLY drives conspirators wild."

"A yard out of the way though? With not a lot of people around?"

"How many people?"

"Four."

Alistair takes a good minute reading that one word. Peter can sense his amused chuckling from the other side of the world.

"Aye, it's easily possible." Alistair finally replies, "Probably leave you pretty tired though. And won't last long. Just short of a day, maybe twenty-four hours, depending how much you produce and what the weather's already like."

"K. Thanks."

Peter puts his phone away, barely able to Edwin swearing in failure from outside. He slips into his sleeping bag, closing his eyes and feigning sleep as Edwin sneaks back in.

* * *

"Paula! Paula! Paula!" Erland yells, shaking the girl awake, "Paula, it's a magic! It's a magic!"

"Miracle, Erland," Paula corrects gently, sitting up, rubbing her eyes, "What's a miracle?"

"Snow!"

"You sound like Edwin."

"No, look!"

Paula pulls herself out of bed and to the window. The entirety of her principality is covered in about three feet of snow. Icicles cling to her house, twinkling pink in the sunrise.

"Oh. My. _God_!" Paula squeals, jumping up and down in excitement. She sprints through her house, barely pausing to put her boots on before dashing out into the snow, still in her pyjamas, Erland and a very confused Erwin just behind her. Peter is still curled up in his sleeping bag, exhausted.

* * *

 **And thus concludes the Winter Wonderland AUs!  
It wasn't meant to take this bloody long...**

 **I've had a few comments on here and the Ao3 mirror about making a full length Smuggler's Inn fic, which is something I really want to do at some point. However! I am currently getting another multichapter fic pulled together, so it's on the back burner. It will be done though, honest!**

 **So here's a quick shout-out; reviews/ideas/suggestions/prompts are accepted (read: encouraged).**

 **Random headcannons;  
Peter can do magic, but pretends he can't specifically to distance himself from England. Alistair is the only one who knows, and teaches him in secret.  
Peter and Paula both swear a lot, and it upsets adult humans, which causes Paula in particular to swear more to spite them  
None of the contact names in Peter's phone are serious  
Erland is quiet like his Papa Sweden, and polite like his Mama Finland. When he's excited, he jumbles his words up, sometimes even mixing different languages together.  
Edwin really likes to make things look pretty, but it often doesn't work, which makes them pretty sad.**

 **I feel kinda sad it's over now tbh  
-Laurel Silver**


	16. I stille not want

**Characters;  
Yorkie 'Yorkshire' Fae  
Arthur 'England' Kirkland  
Tevio 'Roxburgshire' Fae**

 **Pairings; British counties  
**

 **Summary; Yorkie wants to learn to read. Arthur doesn't want to teach mag. Sort-of sequel to "I shall not want"**

 **Note; the counties are represented by fairies. The fairies use mag/magis/magiself pronouns.**

* * *

 _York, 1565_

"Yorkie, put that down!" Arthur yells.

"Lick my fruits!" Yorkie snaps back. The Bible topples from the shelf Arthur had placed it on, the corner swinging in Yorkie's tiny hand. Try as mag might, mag struggles to fly with such a heavy object dangling from magis thin little fingers, and mag ends up flapping mags way to the ground in defeat.

"I told you to put it down," Arthur chastises.

"And I told you to lick my fruits." Yorkie pulls the book open.

"What are you even doing?"

"Teach me to read!"

"What?" Arthur physically laughs. "You're too busy to read, Yorkie. Who'll hang up the lambs tails if you're too busy reading?"

"I don't actually hang up lamb's tails, you know."

"Of course you do, how else do they get on the trees?" Arthur pats Yorkie's head patronisingly. Mag shrieks at him, shaking tiny fists at him.

Arthur picks the Bible up, closing it and putting it back on the shelf.

"Oi! Took me an age to get that out!" Yorkie yells, zipping back up to it.

"Probably a sign you should leave it well alone," Arthur says, "If you want me to read to you, I will do happily, you know that."

"I don't want you to read to me, you pretentious baude! I want to read by my own!"

"I told you, you don't have time," Arthur says plainly, "Where's this come from, you're being ridiculous."

"The Scottish fae can read," Yorkie says, zipping around Arthur and clinging to his rosary, "Tevio was telling me."

"You know I don't like you talking to Protestants."

"You're not my keeper!"

Arthur sighs. Yorkie always has been a stubborn little sod. "Tevio doesn't even like reading."

"How do you know?!"

"None of them do. They all want to quit, go into working again like you do."

Yorkie glares at him. "I think you're lying."

"Fine. You go ask your _buddy_ Tevio. Mag hates it. All the teachers do is drill, drill, drill information. It's long hours of sitting still, staring at the same thing over and over. Just stick to lamb tails, Yorkie."

Yorkie sulks. "But the English fae can read too!"

"But they have less responsibilities."

"No they don't!"

Arthur lifts up his rosary, glaring at Yorkie. Yorkie sulks, flapping off the rosary to the mantelpiece. Mag sits down, kicking magis legs idly.

"My God, don't look at me like that," Arthur says, leaning on the mantelpiece.

Yorkie pulls magis legs up, pointedly looking in the opposite direction to where Arthur stands, magis wings folded down magis back.

"I didn't mean it, Yorkie," Arthur says gently, running a finger down the thin wings.

Yorkie flaps angrily. "Don't touch."

Arthur stares at the soft white veins, calculating. "You bloody-minded git."

Yorkie sniggers.

"Do something for nothing for yourself, and leave education well alone," Arthur says gently, rubbing Yorkie's head with the pad of his finger.

Yorkie smiles, "Fine. But only for myself."

Arthur returns the smile.

* * *

 **Based on a review from ShayminxForeverx; "Fun Fact : According to my history teacher, education was first compulsory in Scotland before it was in England. :)"  
Well that tears a hole in my headcannon**

 **The push for universal education in Scotland started in 1560, when Scotland became a Protestant country. England was still Catholic at the time (hence the rosary).  
Tevio hating education is more of a reference to early universities. Attendance began at roughly age 14, but a lot of the working class who attended we unused to the long hours of stillness. Many would drop out after only a few sessions. However, Arthur is slightly exaggerating to Yorkie, because he's too lazy to teach mag.**

 **"Lick my fruits" fruits = genitals  
"Hang up the lambs tails" is from an old Northern. Heather would begin to sprout around the same time farmers would cut of lambs' tails (for their health, it stopped them overheating and didn't hurt them don't worry). As sprouting heather looks like lambs' tails, the myth went that fairies would cut off the lambs' tails and hang them on the heather trees for winter.  
"Baude" Old English/Chaucerian for 'pimp'  
Tevio's name comes from Teviotdale, a Scottish province now known as Roxburgshire.  
"Bloody-minded" 'stubborn'. Stubborness is one of the main stereotypes of people from Yorkshire.  
"Do something for nothing for yourself" part of the Yorkshire man's motto, "If you ever do anything for nothing, do it only for yourself"**

 **Is is obvious that I'm from Yorkshire?  
I own nothing  
-Laurel Silver**


	17. So bloody cross

**Characters:  
Arthur 'England' Kirkland  
Dylan 'Wales' Kirkland (Dilly)  
Cymru (Wales' dragon)  
Alistair 'Scotland' Kirkland**

 **Pairings; UK bros**

 **Summary; Dylan is feeding Cymru Alistair's leftover kebab. Arthur is trying to drink his tea and read the news in peace. Alistair is hungover.**

* * *

Arthur sits in his kitchen, freshly made tea in hand and a newspaper open on the table. He reads idly, out of habit. He usually knows the day's news off the top of his head. He either lived it himself, felt it happening, or enough of his population knows about it for him to simply know. It makes reading or watching new things a little disappointing.

Dylan sits opposite him, yellow take-away box in hand, Cymru over his shoulder.

"Where'd you get that from?" Arthur asks.

"Deheubarth."

"Not the dragon! The food."

"The fridge. It's Alistair's."

Arthur sighs, glaring at the box like it's done him a personal injustice. "Was he drunk again?"

"Didn't you hear him?"

Arthur sighs again.

"Are you alright, Artie?" Dylan asks quietly. Cymru sniffs at the box and whines.

"Yes. Honestly, it's fine."

"I don't believe you."

"Just feed your bloody dragon!"

Dylan flicks the box open, and Cymru dives on the cold food, chomping loud and messy. Chunks of rubbery chips and stringy meat go flying over the table, and Dylan pulls a face.

A large blob of chilli sauce flies over the lid, splattering over an article on the NHS. Arthur stares at it and sighs.

"Oh, crap, I'm so sorry!" Dylan says, pulling Cymru away from the food slightly.

"No, no, it's fine," Arthur grits through his teeth, "Seriously, don't worry about it."

"It's not though, oh Lordie!" Dylan gathers up the cold kebab and wriggling dragon, "I'll take him outside."

Arthur nods awkwardly, turning the page to a series of celebrity gossip. Cymru groans, swishing his tail and smacking Dylan smartly in the back of the head. Dylan yelps, dropping Cymru, who skitters across the table, tearing the newspaper and knocking into Arthur's mug.

The mug flies from Arthur's hand, smashing into the wall and shattering. A patch of hot, milky tea clings to the wall and drips down, forming a puddle against the skirting board.

"Oh, fuck!" Dylan cries, frozen in the spot. Cymru sniggers.

Arthur breathes in deeply. "It's alright, Dilly."

"I'm _so_ sorry!"

"Calm down, Dilly," Arthur stands up, reaching into the pan cupboard.

"I- just- I- he- what are you doing,"

"Look," Arthur says, smiling forcefully, pan in each hand, "Just forget it."

He leaves the kitchen, heading up the stairs to Alistair's room. Dylan grabs Cymru, getting outside just as Arthur's pan-slamming and Alistair's pained yelling starts.

* * *

 **Arthur is a little shit. #canon**

 **The underlined parts come from a tweet from the SoVeryBritish feed (link in profile)  
**Quite cross: "Honestly, it's fine"  
Very cross: "Seriously, don't worry about it"  
Bloody livid: "Look, just forget it"  
 **Deheubarth is an early Welsh castle (link to webpage in profile)**

 **I own nothing. Not even regular updates.  
-Laurel Silver**


	18. Marie the Nuisance

**Characters;  
Arthur 'England' Kirkland  
Francis 'France' Bonnefoi  
Alistair 'Scotland' Kirkland  
Gervais the tavern-skivvy [random OC]  
Marie the Nuisance [based on a real person]**

 **Pairings; slight FrUK**

 **Summary; Arthur and Francis are hungover. Alistair meets a Frenchwoman and makes a request of her.**

 **Notes; speech written in psuedo-Old English, plain English translations put after  
**

* * *

 _Somewhere in North France, 1340_

Arthur slumps over the tavern table, cloak pulled over his head. "Forbid me more the drink, Francis." Don't let him drink again, Francis.

"T'was of your wish," Francis grunts. It was Arthur's idea.

"I do not believe that."

"By-the-by, I swear." It was, Francis is not lying.

"O visit a nunnery!" Oh fuck off!

"I would, but sunlight falls and I am not to greet it." Francis would but it is bright outside and he's too hungover to face that.

Just outside, Alistair scrapes the mud off his boots, wagging way with the stable-boy, a gangly teen known as Gervais. Gervais has lived and worked at the tavern as long as he can remember, and is one marvellous story-teller. Then again, Alistair can slag off pompous merchants from sunrise to sunset.

Gervais pauses mid sentence, and laughs. "Mister Kirkland, you are a Scotsman, are you not?"

"Yes, I am," Alistair says.

"Did you ever hear a woman play the bagpipes?"

"What?"

Gervais points. A short way down the road, a woman comes ambling up, a leather purse tied around her waist and a set of bagpipes under her arm.

"Hurry Mister Kirkland, I daresay you shall wish to see this," Gervais pulls his boots on quickly, standing up and heading into the tavern.

Alistair stands as the woman reaches the doorstep, and he politely holds the door open. The woman steps in, surveys the room, and heads over to Arthur and Francis.

Arthur falls off his chair as the woman gives the bagpipes a squeeze. The sound is not coherent or pleasant, just noisy in such a small room.

"Alistair! Cease this!" Arthur yells.

"Naught I!" Alistair yells back. It's not him!

Arthur peers out from under his cloak, glaring up at the woman. "Francis, bade her cease!" Make her stop!

The woman plays a few more notes at random, Francis covering his ears. Alistair laughs, clapping.

Arthur grabs one of the bagpipes, pulling hard. The instrument squeals as the woman grabs at it, and Arthur visibly grimaces.

"What are you doing, woman?" He demands.

"Being a nuisance," the woman replies curtly, resetting the bagpipes under her arm.

"You need nought repeat it," Arthur grumbles. She doesn't need to say that again.

The woman smiles pleasantly, and leans down. She levels her face up with Arthur's and screams: "I am being a nuisance!"

Arthur repulses away, smacking his head on the floor and whining in pain. The woman laughs, standing back up and blowing the bagpipes up again.

Arthur kicks her in the shin. "How do I bade you stop being a nuisance, madam?"

The woman smiles, opening the pouch at her hip and shaking it.

Arthur pulls a few coins from his own pouch, dropping them into the offered bag. The woman turns, shaking the pouch at Francis, who throws one of his gold rings at her.

The woman moves on to the next table, the tavern goers handing her coins before she can even start playing.

"She is Marie the Nuisance," Gervais says, pointing to her, "She comes here daily for the past two months."

"And simply… they pay her to stop?" Alistair asks, grinning.

"Yes. It is the devil's plan and it is utterly marvellous."

Marie reaches the pair, Gervais dropping a coin in her purse.

Alistair unfastens his chain from around his neck. "Do you see this, madame? It is of solid gold."

Marie and Gervais stare at the chain in shock.

"Why would you work the stables with worth like this?!" Gervais asks. Why would Alistair live like a poor, working man if he owns something as expensive as a heavy gold chain?

"I have my reasons, lad. Madame Marie, have the chain. I have another I shall give you tomorrow, three thinner silver chains long enough to wrap around my waist I shall give you the day after, and a purse of rubies I shall give you the day after, If, you follow that man," Alistair points at Arthur, "For the entire three days. No mind to his whining, no mind what he pays you, no mind to his anger."

Marie grins. "It is done, sir."

* * *

 **100% accu-rat!  
Marie the Nuisance was a real woman. Unfortunately, I can only really find one source, so link in the profile.  
In three months of bothering people with bagpipes, Marie made enough money to buy Gascony, a region in South-West France.  
It's not known whether a Scottish man gave her a fuckton of wealth to follow the same English man for three days. It's unlikely.**

 **Random headcannons of the day;  
Throughout history, Arthur, Francis, and other Europeans have enjoyed showing off their wealth by giving out expensive gifts.  
** **Alistair is a hoarder. He would keep the extravagent gifts, but give them away for very little becasue he has no actual need for them.  
** **Alistair also likes to keep himself busy, often helping out workers with manual labour.  
** **The three thinner chains Alistair mentions are specifically sporran (those pouch/bag things worn with kilts) chains.** **He was given the gold chains by Arthur, the rubies from Francis. He liked the chain because it's heaviness reminded him of the bands he wore in his Celt days.**

 **I own nothing  
I keep writing at least one Kirkland with a hangover. Huh.  
-Laurel Silver**


	19. Big wooden thing

**Charatcers:  
Arthur 'England' Kirkland  
Ivan 'Russia' Braginski  
Alfred F. 'America' Jones**

 **Pairings; RusAme**

 **Summary; Ivan has a giant wooden sunflower.**

* * *

Arthur raises an eyebrow at Ivan. "Now, Braginski, I know you get sad when your sunflowers die, but this is a whole new level of strange. Even for you."

Ivan pouts, turning the giant wooden sunflower around. The head is about as broad as Ivan's shoulders, with petals the size of his head nailed to the back. It's painted in orange and yellow, and Alfred has drawn a smiley face on the head in black Sharpie.

"It was not my idea," Ivan whines, "My boss gave it to me."

"That's nice of your boss." Not a sentence Arthur had expected to say to Russia.

"No! It is very heavy. He said if I keep taking my sunflowers to meetings, I will have to carry sunflowers all the time!"

Arthur frowns. "But… giant sunflowers instead?"

Ivan nods, "It is normal in Russian military."

"Giant… sunflowers?"

"No!" Ivan giggles, "Giant props. If you are caught on your phone, you carry giant wooden phone. If you forget your rifle, you carry giant rifle!"

"I like the sound of a giant rifle," Alfred says.

"You bloody would." Arthur grumbles.

"So, your boss is starting to punish you by making you carry big things?" Alfred asks.

Ivan nods.

"So… out of interest… what would you have to carry if your boss found out about… y'know… _us_?"

Ivan drops the sunflower in shock, one of the petals breaking against his foot.

* * *

 **Poor Ivan.**

 **Short, sweet, found on tumblr. Link to a post from a military photographer's blog in the profile.**

 **I own nothing  
-Laurel Silver**


	20. Pardon my French

**Characters:  
Alistair 'Scotland' Kirkland  
Arthur 'England' Kirkland  
Francis 'France' Bonnefoi**

 **Pairings; Past Auld Alliance, suggested FrUK**

 **Summary; Arthur's been travelling**

* * *

 _Kent, early 1800's_

Alistair has never really liked travelling down to Arthur's Kent mansion, but it has to be done. As much as Arthur pisses him off, he's still Alistair's wee brother.

Problem is, Arthur's mansion is often updated or added to, Arthur liking to keep up with fashions of the century. Never anything huge, he's still nostalgic, but he always shows it off. And that always pisses Alistair off, because he genuinely doesn't care.

Alistair steps up to the mansion, knocking firmly on the front door. No obvious change from the outside.

Arthur answers himself, and beams. "Alistair! I'm missed you, _mon frere_!"

"Missed you too," Alistair says plainly.

"Come in, _bienvenue_!"

"Alright."

Alistair steps into the house. Again, no immediate change.

"Would you like anything?" Arthur asks, "I believe I still have some _patisseries_ from my travels."

"Some what now?"

"Oh, pardon my French," Arthur laughs, heading further into the house.

"Since when were you so happy to be speaking French?"

"It comes naturally with travelling, I suppose." Arthur leads Alistair to the drawing room, where cakes and pastries are arranged neatly on a delicate stand. He sits down, legs stretched casually in front of him.

Alistair grabs a relatively plain _pain au chocolat_. He's encountered them before, and doesn't trust the rest of the pastries. Cakes, in his experience, are not pink.

"So, _mon frere, comment allez-tu_?"

Alistair just stares at him.

"Oh! Pardon my French!" Arthur exclaims dramatically.

"You realise I was married to Francis for well over two centuries, right?" Alistair says plainly, "I do speak French fluently."

"And yet you don't know what a _patisserie_ is?"

"It's a shop. A poncy baker's. I can't eat a baker."

Arthur pauses. He might have fucked up.

Alistair takes a big bite of the pain au chocolat. It's a little stale after the long journey, but Alistair doesn't mind it. He heads to sit down, tripping on Arthur's stretched-out legs, and dropping his pastry.

"Fuck!" he yells. "Shitting hell, I fucking wanted that for wank's sake!"

Arthur gasps in shock.

Alistair looks up at him, grinning. "Oh, do pardon my French!"

* * *

 **And that's where the slang phrase 'Pardon my French' comes from. The wealthy used it to show off how well travelled (read: rich) and educated (read: rich) they were, and the poor used it to take the piss out of them.**

 **'Patisserie' originally meant baker, and came to also mean pastry due to the British misusing it. Sorry, Franny.**

 **I own nothing  
I also don't speak much French  
-Laurel Silver**


	21. Where's your Dad?

**Characters:  
Peter 'Sealand' Kirland  
Joshua 'Alaska' Braginski-Williams  
(Mister) Matthew 'Canada' Braginski-Williams (Joshua's Mama)  
Kuma [Kumajiro, a dog in this AU]  
Berwald 'Sweden' Oxenstierina (Peter's Papa)  
Hanatamago (Hana)  
Ivan 'Russia' Braginski-Williams (Joshua's Dad)**

 **Pairings; Alaskan Family (CanRus), suggested SuFin**

* * *

Peter follows Joshua into his house, politely taking his shoes off at the door. Joshua's 'Mama', a soft-spoken Canadian, introduces himself as Matthew, no need for Mister Braginski-Williams, that's a bit of a mouthful anyway.

While Joshua is quite soft-spoken himself, he's very friendly once you pull him out of his shell. Which Peter had been determined to do. He knows how tough it is, moving to a new school, being the kid with foreign parents, being the kid with two dads.

Matthew and Peter's Papa had talked about it while waiting for school to finish, and so Peter and Joshua had permission to go to each other's house. Which was incredibly exciting for both boys, seeing each others houses and bedrooms and playing their games and eating their food.

Joshua and Peter sit watching cartoons for a while. Kuma, a huge fluffy white dog, sits himself on top of Peter. He's heavy, but Peter doesn't mind it. Matthew apologises about Kuma, but agrees to talk to Peter's Papa about maybe taking Kuma and Hana for walks together.

Joshua calls their dinner poutine. It just tastes like cheesy chips and gravy to Peter, but he likes chips, gravy and cheese so there's nothing for him to complain about.

"Joshua," Peter asks idly as Matthew scoops ice-cream into a couple of bowls, "How come your Dad didn't come to eat with us?"

Matthew sighs, pausing.

"He's not here right now," Joshua says, and looks up to the ceiling, "He's up there, watching over us."

"Oh," Peter deadpans, "I… I am so sorry, I didn't know he'd passed away."

Matthew snorts.

Joshua stares at him in horror. "My dad," he whispers, "Is an astronaut."

* * *

 **From a post on the funnystories blog, link in the profile.**

 **I ship CanRus and no one will stop me.**

 **I own nothing  
-Laurel Silver**


	22. Gregor MacGregor

**Characters:  
Arthur 'England' Kirkland  
Alistair 'Scotland' Kirkland  
Matthew 'Canada' Kirkland  
Jett 'Australia' Kirkland  
Steve (Jett's koala)  
Kumajiro (Matthew's polar bear)  
Alfred F. 'America' Jones**

 **Pairings; British family, British Empire, brotherly AmeCan**

 **Summary; Alfred has given Alistair a gift. Arthur is not impressed. Matt is quiet, and Jett is confused.**

* * *

 _Arthur's London flat, 1825_

Alistair leans on Arthur's desk, grinning broadly. Matthew and Jett sit by the fireplace, brushing their bears' furs.

"What are you after?" Arthur asks plainly.

"What do you mean?!"

"You've got that look on your face like you're up to something."

"Am I not allowed to smile?!" Alistair gasps.

"Not like that, you're not."

Alistair sighs. "Alfred gave me something that I have absolutely _nothing_ I can do with."

Arthur glares at him. "I thought I'd made it clear I didn't want anyone fraternising with Master Jones."

"Aye, you told the colonies that."

Matthew stares awkwardly at his feet.

"I assumed you realised that the rule extended to yourself," Arthur snaps.

"No, no I did not," Alistair says, and grimaces.

"What?" Arthur demands, and both Matthew and Jett freeze.

"You're really not going to like what he gave me, then."

"What is it?"

Alistair breathes deeply, folding his hands in front of him. "He gave me land."

"He did _what_?"

"He gave me land," Alistair repeats, "Poyais, in Central America."

Matthew frowns. Jett is just confused.

"Why would he do that?" Arthur says tightly.

"I've heard about that," Jett chimes, "There's that song about it!"

"What are you on about?"

"We'll a' gang to Poyais thegither!" Jett says. We'll all go to Poyais together!

"You know I don't like you talking like a commoner," Arthur snaps at him, and Jett deflates.

"Aye, that's the place," Alistair nods, "Poyais. Interest rates here are shite, Artie. Foreign investment is the only sensible investment right now."

"You didn't invest in anything. And don't call me that in front of the colonies."

"We have names, you know," Jett mutters.

"That might be why Alfred gave me it," Alistair sighs, tugging on his beard, "So I have somewhere to go if your market crashes. Or to spite you. And I'm always up for spiting you."

"Give me the land," Arthur says plainly.

Alistair groans. "I can't just do that, though."

"Why not? Alfred gave it to you."

"Aye, but I'd be letting him down if I just _gave_ it to you. It's a big gift, y'ken."

Arthur sighs, growling. "What do you want in exchange for it?"

"That's more like it." Alistair grins.

Jett and Matthew finish comb through their bears' furs as Alistair and Arthur negotiate, barely paying attention. Matthew sits with a book open in his lap, and Jett takes a nap on his shoulder.

Arthur leaves, slamming the door behind him as he storms through the flat. Jett jolts awake, and Steve groans at the sudden noise.

Alistair gets up, heading over to his nephews, buttoning his pocket. He reaches into his jacket, pulling out a bunch of papers. "Get these handed out, aye?"

"Aye!" Jett grins, flicking through the papers. He hands Matthew his letter, takes his own out the pile, and hides the rest under his jumper.

"Poyais?" Matthew asks cheekily.

"Aye, Poyais," Alistair agrees as Jett passes another pile of letters across.

"Poyais doesn't exist, uncle Alistair."

Alistair winks to Matthew, hiding his niblings' letters to their brother in his jacket. Jett is still just confused.

* * *

 **It's t-RU!  
In the early 1800's, a Scottish guy known as Gregor MacGregor claimed to own land in Central America called 'Poyais', pointing out east Honduras/north-east Nicaragua as its location. Hundreds of wealth Englishfolk and Frenchfolk invested their savings in Poyaisian government bonds and land certificates, while about 250 emigrated to MacGregor's invented country to find an uninhabitable jungle. **

**Random headcannons of the day;  
Alistair's middle name is Gregor  
Alistair would visit Alfred and relay letters between the colonies. Alfred would often stay up late at night, writing personal letters to his siblings. If Alistair couldn't visit, he'd pass the letters on to France to take them. Prussia, Spain and once even Russia would also sometimes need to help get the letters delivered, but they always managed. Arthur never knew.**

 **I own nothing  
-Laurel Silver**


	23. I'm gonna sue

**Characters:  
Jett 'Australia' Kirkland  
Arthur 'England' Kirklamd  
Steve [Jett's koala]**

 **Pairings; British family**

 **Summary; Jett is passed out in his garden, and Arthur is concerned.**

* * *

 _Kentucky, Australia, 1996_

"Jett?" Arthur shakes Jett gently, "Jett, lad, are you alright?"

Jett groans, sitting up slowly. "What happened? Why are you here?"

"You went five whole minutes without uploading an animal video to myspace, we were worried about you," Arthur says, "What the hell happened?"

Jett sits up fully, looking around. The pair are in Jett's garden, where Jett has been laid for almost half an hour, unconscious, blood dribbling from his nose.

"I have no idea what happened," Jett says.

Arthur scans the garden, Sherlock senses tingling. The garden looks normal. Lawn. Treehouse with a couple of swings. Steve asleep in the sun. Kangaroo shit. Jett. Blood. Boomerang.

"Did you get sun stroke, lad?" he asks, helping Jett to his feet.

"No, I'm not dehydrated," Jett says, "My head just hurts."

"What were you doing?"

"Throwing my boomerang."

Arthur sighs. "Are you serious."

"I like my boomerang!"

"I know, lad. But do you remember what I used to tell about that bloody things?"

"Yeah mate!" Jett straightens up, pursing his lips and glaring down his nose at a random patch of grass. "One of these days, boy," he says in his best English accent, "You won't catch it and it will smack you straight in the face."

Arthur raises an eyebrow. "And what do you think's happened?"

Jett stares at him, then the boomerang on the grass. "Why do I taste blood?"

"Your nose is still bleeding love."

"Oh. I'm gonna sue."

"What?"

"I'm gonna sue."

"Who?"

"Me."

Arthur stares at him. "I don't think that a thing people can do."

"Not with that attitude they can't!"

* * *

 **Based on a true story.  
Larry Rutman, a man from Kentucky, hit himself in the head with his own boomerang and sued himself. He won 400,000 Aussie dollars (300,000 American dollars/£205,000/€290,000) all paid out by his insurance company. He wanted to sue the boomerang manufacturer but his lawyer advised him against it.  
I don't think he broke his nose though. I just added that to better match what Arthur said.**

 **Headcannons;  
Arthur is a mother hen  
Jett can mimic most of the things Arthur used to tell him not to do. Mostly because Jett would do it anyway, so Arthur would tell him several times.  
Jett is stubbornly optimistic, and a little spiteful against Arthur in particular. If anyone (especially Arthur) tells him he can't do something, Jett will absolutely do it just so he can rub it in Arthur's face.  
Jett loves animals, and since the internet became a thing he constantly uploads videos of animals around his home. He's in a Cute Animals school with several other nations, including Dylan/Wales and Xien Leon/Hong Kong.**

 **I own nothing  
Everyone hates Arthur  
-Laurel Silver**


	24. Can't hear free

**Characters:  
Arthur 'England' Kirkland  
Alfred F. 'America' Jones**

 **Pairings; USUK**

 **Summary; Alfred is loud**

* * *

Arthur winces as Alfred tears around the house, American flag billowing behind him.

"Alfred, lad," Arthur yells over the noise, "Would you settle the fuck down, I can't hear myself think!"

"Sorry, Iggy!" Alfred hollers, "I can't hear you over my _FREEDOM_!"

"Oh really? Well, I can't hear you over my free healthcare."

Alfred doesn't even pause. "Sounds like some shit-ass healthcare then."

* * *

 **Us Brits may have healthcare, but it's headed down the drain. This isn't the place for slagging off Jeremy Cunt though.**

 **I own nothing  
-Laurel Silver**


	25. Chip cob

**Characters:  
Arthur 'England' Kirkland  
Alistair 'Scotland' Kirkland  
Alfred F. 'America' Jones**

 **Summary; British slang is weird**

* * *

 _A quiet British pub, lunchtime_

Arthur bites into his sandwich, glaring at Alistair. Alistair is still building his sandwich, strategically placing his chunky chips and fish pieces. Alfred stacks his onion rings and some extra salad in his burger, grinning in anticipation.

Alfred replaces the toasted burger bun, picking up the colossal sandwich and biting down. Melted cheese and grease and sauce dribble down his chin, and he moans.

"Fuck, lad," Alistair grunts, "Get a room."

"Oh I would," Alfred moans, mouth still half full, "I would show this burger a good time."

Alistair pulls a face, picking up his own sandwich and taking a bite. A couple of chips fall out onto his plate, landing in his curry sauce.

"How's the cob, brother dear?" Arthur asks innocently.

"None of us ordered sweetcorn," Alistair says sharply.

"Do they serve corn cobs here?" Alfred asks, grabbing the menu.

"Probably," Alistair snatches the menu back, "But you've got enough food."

"I _never_ have enough food!"

"Not corn on the cob, silly!" Arthur grins, "Your chip cob!"

"His what now?" Alfred deadpans.

Alistair drops his sandwich onto his plate. "It's a fucking butty."

"It's a cob."

"It's a butty."

"What's a butty?" Alfred cuts in.

"The wrong name for a cob," Arthur says.

Alistair glares like he's about to dive over the table and strangle Arthur.

"You know something?" Alfred says, preparing himself for another biter of his Orgasmic Burger™, "I am so glad George Washington told y'all to fuck of so I don't gotta participate in whatever this bullshit is."

* * *

 **A cob is a bread roll/bun/cake We have too many words for small breads in Britain.  
A butty is a sandwich. Specifically a sandwich with warm contents, like bacon or chips**

 **Random headcannons of the** **day  
** **Alfred appreciates a well made burger. McD's etc are good, but nothing beats pub grub.  
Alistair prefers curry with fish and chips. Arthur prefers mushy peas.  
Arthur lives to wind his siblings up. Especially Alistair. Alistair rises to it every time.**

 **I own nothing.  
It is a chip _butty_ gdi.  
-Laurel Silver**


	26. Mr Chad Kilroy

**Characters;  
Ivan 'Russia' Braginski (Vanya)  
Gilbert 'Prussia' Bielschmidt (Gilly)  
Artur 'England' Kirkland  
Fredka 'America' Jones**

 **Pairings; PRussia, USUK**

 **Summary; an American spy is back, and Ivan is going to investigate**

* * *

 _Streets of East Berlin, 1950_

Ivan studies the graffiti, smile dropped to an exaggerated expression of concentration.

"We never caught a Kilroy," Gilbert says, "And whenever we asked, the American soldiers would just start giggling."

Ivan leans back, smiling. "We cannot know for sure that it is the same Kilroy."

"Who else would it be?!"

"This graffiti is all over Berlin. Are you telling me that Kilroy travelled everywhere in Berlin, and is now everywhere in Moscow? Don't be ridiculous, Gilly."

"What else could it be?!"

Ivan frowns, and Gilbert cautiously backs away.

"I'm sure we'll catch the guy, Vanya. We're too awesome for him to escape us."

"He has escaped you before."

"Yeah… but… nothing gets past you, big guy!" Gilbert claps Ivan awkwardly on the shoulder.

Ivan turns on Gilbert, and Gilbert recoils, fighting a wince of fear.

"We shall investigate," Ivan says sweetly, grin pulling back into his cheeks.

Gilbert gulps.

* * *

 _Random hotel room in Moscow, same time_

Artur sips his tea quietly, re-reading his letter. He's well experienced in sending out codes and secret messages, but he still like to be extra sure it it camouflaged well into the bullshit he's hidden it in. Slip ups and sloppiness can cost lives.

Fredka steps back, proud of his handiwork. A line has been carved into the wall, with a little cartoon man peering over the top. The man's long nose and stumpy little fingers hang over the line, buggy eyes staring out into the room. The words 'Mr. Chad Kilroy was here' are carved underneath.

"What'cha think, Iggy?" Fredka asks, grinning.

"I think this tea desperately needs sugar," Artur says, staring forlornly at his cup.

Fredka sighs. "No! Of our buddy Kilroy over here!"

Artur looks up at the graffiti. "Handsome chap, our Chad. Still think he could do with a haircut though."

Fredka laughs, wrapping an arm around Artur.

* * *

 **Story time!  
** **During world war two, American soldiers would leave graffiti pretty much everywhere they went of a character known as Kilroy, with the words 'Kilroy was here'. This lead Axis officials to believe that the Americans had some sort of super-soldier known as Kilroy.  
** **During the Cold War, the Kilroy graffiti started up again, but to a much lesser extent due to the fact that there was no actual fighting between Russia and America. The graffiti was left by spies, or by Russian rebels.  
** **Russian officials, much like the Axis officials, then began investigating Kilroy, trying to catch him, completely unaware he was just a dumb mascot.  
** **Kilroy still sometimes appears in American pop culture.  
A British version known as Chad also existed, usually saying 'Chad woz here' (or 'Wot no sugar?' in regards to crap rations). While Chad is no longer a part of Brutish pop culture, it's believed that the culture of misspelled graffiti started here, or is at least the first known evidence of it.  
Link to a WW2 infosite in the profile**

 **I own nothing  
Just goes to show, we've always been shitty vandal delinquents.  
-Laurel Silver**


	27. Sucking too hard on your lollipop

**Characters:  
Alistair 'Scotland' Kirkland (Ali-bear)  
Arthur 'England' Kirkland  
Francis 'France' Bonnefoi**

 **Pairings; British Family**

 **Summary; Alistair deals with a pair of drunken idiots**

 **AU; human, university students**

 **Note;** _italics_ **signify it is written in French**

* * *

 _A popular bar in London_

Alistair drags Arthur out of the bar, Arthur still slurring random drinking songs. Francis follows after them, barely sober himself but still able to walk. Just about.

"Artie, would you shut the fuck up?!" Alistair whisper-snaps.

"Love you, Aliiiii," Arthur slurs, "I love you!"

"That's nice, now shut up!"

Francis stumbles forwards, grabbing Alistair by the arm before he falls flat on his face. "Ugh…"

"Love you Ali-bear!"

"Please don't call me that," Alistair deadpans.

Francis stumbles again, falling against another student. The student whines, and stumbles off.

"But **why** Ali-bear? It's so cute!" Arthur slurs, clinging to Alistair.

"Just shut up already! For the love of-" Alistair grabs Francis again, dragging both of them towards their accommodation.

"I called you it all the time when we were widdle," Arthur whines.

"Aye, and I'd throw your dummy at you to shut you up!"

" _Too bad he doesn't have one now,_ " Francis grumbles.

"I heard that, you wanker!"

" _Ali-bear agrees with me_."

"No he doesn't!"

"Yes he does," Alistair cuts in.

Arthur stops in his tracks, and Alistair sighs. He's not in the mood to be told off by a drunk man. Arthur's face screws up, and he makes a long, pitchy whining noise. He sobs, still clinging to Alistair's arm, and sniffles pathetically.

A drunk girl stumbles up, shoving something in Arthur's mouth before her slightly less drunk friends drag her away. Arthur's whining stops instantly.

"No, spit it out!" Alistair says sharply, unhooking himself from Francis to force Arthur's mouth open.

Arthur spits out the lollipop, returning instantly to his loud sobbing.

Alistair sighs, wiping the lollipop on Arthur's shirt and tearing off the wrapper. He shoves it back into Arthur's open mouth, and drags the drunk pair away.

* * *

 **During the World Cup of 2014, pubs in Enfield, London, would give out lollipops to people as they left. They've been doing this since at least 2009, and it has cut down on noise complaints, especially when matches end late at night. Link to an article in the profile.**

 **Random headcannons of the day;  
** **Baby Arthur would chew on things a lot, and in human aus would have had a dummy/pacifier and lots of chewing toys  
** **Arthur can't talk and eat at the same time  
** **Francis forgets how to use English when he's drunk, and in the canon universe will even slip into Latin and Gaulish dialects  
** **Arthur forgets to pretend he doesn't speak French when he's drunk, and in the canon universe may even 'get stuck' speaking French if he's conscious long enough**

 **I own nothing  
Arthur and Francis are going to have the worst hangovers  
-I own nothing**


	28. Honestly, Anne

**Characters:  
Erin 'Republic of Ireland' O'Murdach  
Arthur 'England' Kirkland  
Anne Boleyn  
King Henry Tudor VIII of England**

 **Summary; Arthur goes to Ireland to say something very important**

* * *

 _Ireland, 2007_

"What the actual fuck, Anne?" Arthur yells.

"I know!" Erin says.

"Honestly!"

"She could have done so much better."

"Exactly!" Arthur exclaims.

"Marrying that fat bastard."

"Oy, watch it!"

* * *

 **Quick explanation;  
In 1533, King H-8 fucked British religion up to divorce his first wife, Catherine of Aragon.  
Irish people were a bit pissed, and when King H-8 married his second wife, Anne Boleyn, Irish people were slagging the royal relationship off.  
In 2007, Irish government was having trouble picking through all the Irish/British laws making up their constitution, so they had a clear out.  
5,782 useless laws were scrapped, including the law above**

 **Random headcannons;  
Erin is Catholic, and has always been against the H-8/Boleyn marriage  
I feel like Arthur would also be kind of pissed about the religion split in Britain. Is he Catholic or Protestant? Gah, he doesn't bloody know.**

 **Not the shortest chapter I've ever written  
I own nothing  
-Laurel Silver**


	29. New Message

**Characters:  
Arthur 'England' Kirkland  
Alistair Gregor 'Scotland' Kirkland (Scottie/Oldest Shite)  
Lukas 'Norway' Bondevik (Norweigan with a Danish Puppy)  
Soren 'Denmark' Kohler  
Francis 'France' Bonnefoi**

 **Pairings; Auld Alliance, DenNor**

 **Summary; Arthur wakes to find Alistair was kidnapped! Oh no!**

 **AU; human, students  
Warning for some mentions of NSFW stuff**

* * *

Arthur drags himself out of bed, yawning and stretching. He stands, clapping loudly.

Nothing happens.

Arthur claps again. Again, nothing happens.

"Alistair?" Arthur calls. No answer.

Alistair had been out drinking last night. As is pretty typical for students. But Arthur has an essay to hand in in two days, and he hasn't even finished reading the texts. Star students right there.

Arthur pads out his room and lets himself into Alistair's. Alistair's room seems messy to Arthur, if only because Alistair has a minor hoarding problem.

Arthur leaps onto Alistair's bed, yelling incoherently. The bed is completely empty, duvet flung back and left unmade. Who has time to make a bed every day? Not Alistair Gregor Kirkland.

In the next room, Arthur's phone rings. The Shrek soundtrack. Call from Alistair.

Arthur dives from Alistair's bed, almost tripping on the carpet as he practically runs to his room. He grabs his phone, pulls it off the charger and answers. "Hello?"

A chuckle.

"Alistair? What the hell?"

Alistair doesn't respond, just breathes down the phone.

"If this is a prank, I will pour all of your orange shit down the sink!"

No response.

"Where the fuck are you? I'm coming to pick you up, you bloody pisshead."

Arthur glares at the phone as the line goes dead, the tone ringing ominously. A text from Lukas, or 'Norwegian with a Danish Puppy' as Arthur has him saved, a guy Arthur knows from the Magic Society.

"Just saw your Scottie," Lukas' text reads, "Looked like he was fighting some guy. Didn't get involved, had to take Søren home, but it doesn't look like Scottie was winning."

Arthur sighs, rolling his eyes. It was only a matter of time before someone smacked Alistair. Arthur just hopes it smacked some sense into his stupid older sibling. He throws his phone down, heading to get dressed. His phone buzzes several times.

Arthur takes his time getting dressed and making himself a cup of tea, before wandering back to his room to check his phone. If Alistair feels like being a dick, he can wait wherever he's passed out for a while longer.

'12 new picture messages from Oldest Shite'

Arthur frowns, unlocking his phone. He opens the first message, almost dropping his phone in shock.

Alistair, in the picture, is shirtless and kneeling on the floor, hands behind his back. Large purple bruises line his chest and shoulders, and the entire base of his neck is red, thumb imprints darkening in his throat. His hair is a mess, flopped down over his face, scarf tied over his eyes. More pictures, close ups of his bound wrists bruised from struggle, the knot of his blindfold, his bruises. A short video of him whimpering as the kidnapper chuckles, then Alistair reeling back as the kidnapper had smacked him sharply across the face.

Arthur closes the message before the next video finishes loading. He calls Alistair's phone, bouncing nervously.

The phone is answered. Soft whimpering, and someone gasping.

"Who the fuck is this?!" Alistair demands sharply.

That chuckle again. Nasal and ugly to hear.

"What are you doing to my Ali?!"

The voice doesn't answer, just sighs and hangs up. Arthur glares at the phone, resisting the urge to throw the phone across the room.

'New message from Oldest Shite'

Arthur opens the message nervously.

"Clinton Overnight. Room 265."

Of course. The perfect place to hold someone. A cheap hotel, a hotspot for one night stands and certain *ahem* interests. Holding someone hostage somewhere like that would go completely unnoticed.

Arthur grabs his keys, half running to his car and heading up to the Clinton Overnight. It's an ugly square building, with a bright yellow sign that is now missing most of the letters, leaving just CLI-T-N O-ER-I-T.

Arthur heads straight in, and up the stairs. The lift is seemingly out of order.

The second floor is quiet, only one couple heading towards Arthur and straight past him with only awkward smiles. Arthur reaches room 265, and takes a deep breath before he throws the door open.

Silence.

Arthur steps in. The room is plain, only big enough for the bed. The duvet shifts, and Alistair sits up. He rubs his face, then locks eyes with Arthur.

He yelps, pulling the duvet up, but it's too late. The bruises have darkened, circling his throat in a purple choker and dotting over his shoulders and chest.

"Alistair!" Arthur dives on top of him, "Are you alright?!"

"Get off me!" Alistair shoves him away, "Why the fuck are you here?!"

"There was a text."

"From who?"

"Lukas first. Then whoever kidnapped you."

Alistair frowns. "Who?"

"From my Wizarding Society."

"No, I know who Lukas is-"

Alistair is cut off as the duvet shifts. A man, blond and rather slight, sits up. His hair is a mess, and a beard just longer than stubble clings to his jaw.

"Who's this?" Arthur says.

"Oh, fuck," Alistair sighs.

"I," the blond says, "Am Francis. An exchange student. You're 'Fucker', I presume."

"I don't know!" Arthur splutters.

"Yes," Alistair says, "He's saved in my phone as 'Fucker'."

"Rude! I'm not surprised, but that's still rude!"

Francis chuckles, and Arthur has to restrain himself from beating that smirk of the Frenchman's face. Francis stands, completely naked. "Just thought you would want to know, Fucker."

"Know what?"

"He _really_ doesn't need to know," Alistair says.

"Of course _you'd_ say that!" Francis snaps.

"Of course I would! I don't want my brother knowing what I get off on!"

"What?" Francis says.

" _What_!" Arthur shrieks, repulsing away.

"He's your brother?"

"Aye," Alistair says, "Why the fuck were you on my phone?!"

"I wanted to be sure you didn't have a girlfriend who'd try to cut my dick off!"

"You've really been around haven't you?"

"What?"

Arthur pulls himself up off the floor. "What. The. _Fuck_?!"

Francis sighs, covering himself awkwardly with his hands. "I have fucked up."

"Why is Arthur here?!" Alistair asks.

"I messaged him. With pictures and videos of…"

"Right!" Alistair interrupts quickly, "Why the fuck would you do that?"

"I thought he was… not your brother…"

"What?"

"Well… 'Fucker'... I thought it meant 'Fuckbuddy'..."

Arthur gasps in horror.

"No," Alistair says, "It really doesn't."

"I realise that _now_!" Francis snaps.

* * *

 **Story idea originally came from Zho500; "Can you do one where either Scotland or England get into a bar fight and gets shot/stabbed/something and has to be found after the guy who did it drags him off and hides him?" I get the feeling that this blatantly isn't what you had in mind...**

 **Slang is weird. British sarcasm is weird. Don't go through people's phones.  
I own nothing, especially not Zho500  
Laurel Silver**


	30. Fire balls

**Characters:  
Arthur 'England' Kirkland  
Antonio 'Spain' Fernandez Carriedo  
Mia 'Mexico' Zapata Carriedo  
Irepani** **'Purépecha' Tarasco Rosaria**  
 **Matthew 'Canada' Williams**  
 **Alfred F. 'America' Jones**

 **Pairings; F.A.C.E family, ex-Spanish Empire, Mexican family**

 **Summary; Matthew is playing hockey in Northwest Mexico, Arthur is a Mama Hen**

* * *

 _Michoacán, Mexico_

Arthur sits with Antonio, drinking his tea. Antonio is leaning forwards excitedly, face painted with the Mexican flag.

"You know this is just a silly game, right?" Arthur says, glancing across at Antonio.

"What? I can't show support to my babies?" Antonio retorts.

"It's not that. I just think you're going _overboard_."

Antonio freezes up, but relaxes quickly. "Spanish pride."

"They're Mexican."

"Still count as Spanish."

"I feel like they'd disagree with you."

"They are _my_ babies, and I am _proud_ of them!"

"Alright, Mama Hen!"

Mia holds up the ball, liquid dripping from her hand. Irepani gives a cheer, swinging his stick in the air. Matthew bounces excitedly. Hockey is love, hockey is life.

The ball drops, and one of the boys on Matthew's team has to stop the idiot northerner from going straight at it.

Mia crouches and, with a flourish of her arm, sets the petrol-dipped ball on fire.

Arthur sits bolt upright. "What the fuck?"

Antonio cheers as Mia clears the court, and she calls at the teams to start playing. Irepani dives forwards, smacking the ball towards the opposite goal. Matthew is hot on his heels.

Arthur rises in alarm. "Why is it on fire?!"

"Because… Mexi set it on fire?" Antonio responds dumbly.

"This isn't safe!"

"Oh calm down, Mama Hen. Your precious America has handled cannonballs, he'll be fine!"

"That's Canada!"

"Oh," Antonio stares at Matthew, "Are you sure?"

"I think I can tell my own colonies apart, unlike _some people_!" Arthur gives Matthew a long stare anyway. Definitely Matthew. His hair's too long and French to be Alfred.

"Did he handle cannonballs too?"

"No. And I don't like him handling these balls either!"

"No wonder your kids revolted against you. Controlling bitch. _EH! GOAL! ME-XI-CO! ME-XI-CO!_ "

"What did you just call me!"

" _GOAL! ME-XI-CO! GO! GO!_ "

* * *

 **Pelota Purépecha is a traditional game that used to be played by** **Purépecha** **people, who are an indegenous people who live mostly in northwest Mexico.  
** **There is evidence of this game being played right back to 3,500 years ago. Under Spanish rule, a lot of traditional games began to die out in Mexico and other Spanish colonies, as the players would be killed at war, and/or the games would be banned by the new rulers. However, Mexico has recently been pushing for a revival of pre-Hispanic games and cultures.  
** **It is similar to hockey, but has some variations in rules. It also has a much stronger cultural significance, originating as a representation of a legend of a battle between day and night, the fire representing the sun and the players representing the movement of the universe.  
** **Pelota** **Purépecha** **is Spanish for "** **Purépecha** **ball"  
** **In the** **Purépecha language the general game is called "** **Uárukua Ch'anakua" which translates to English as "a game with sticks".** **"Pasárutakua** _ **"**_ **specifically refers to the game being played with the ball on fire.**

 **Headcannons of the day:  
Matthew will play hockey in any and every form it comes  
Mia doesn't appreciate being called Spanish. She's Mexican and very proud of that, and loves to talk about her history and politics and culture to anyone who will listen,  
Irepani is a little short tempered, and generally likes to keep to himself. He loves sports.  
Arthur and Antonio, as well as other ex-empires, sometimes struggle to tell their 'kids' apart, but are very defensive of those 'kids'. They can also be very motherly and overbearing towards their 'kids', even if the 'kids' don't appreciate it.**

 **I own nothing**


	31. Musical

**Characters:  
Alistair 'Scotland' Kirkland  
Alfred 'America' Jones  
Yong Soo 'Republic of Korea' Im**

 **Pairings; kimchiburger (U.S.A & R.O.K)**

 **Summary; Alfred is singing.**

* * *

 _Meeting room, shortly before a Word Meeting_

Alistair heads into the meeting, formal clothes still feeling a little tight and uncomfortable compared to his more casual clothing. He puts his bag down behind his name card and wanders off to find someone to talk to.

He walks into Alfred by the buffet table. "Hey man!" Alfred greets noisily, ketchup smeared in the corner of his mouth already.

"Hello!" Alistair responds, clapping Alfred on the shoulder.

" _It's me_."

"I can see that," Alistair says, frowning slightly, "Hey-"

" _I just met you_!" Alfred interrupts, " _And this is crazy-_ "

"Woah, stop!"

" _Wait a minute!_ "

Alistair claps a hand over Alfred's mouth, glaring at him.

" _Fill my cup, put some liquor in it_!" Yong Soo dives at the pair excitedly.

Alfred high-fives Yong Soo, the pair laughing. Alistair just walks away.

* * *

 **Just an unscheduled update to say; "Yo, not dead." I've moved house and started a new job so I've been busy as heckie, sorry. Back to the Monday schedule with a request fill**

 **Songs** **referenced ;  
** **"Hello" Adele  
"Call me maybe" Carly Rae Jepsen  
"Uptown Funk" Bruno Mars ft Mark Ronson**

 **I own nothing  
-Laurel Silver**


	32. Shaken, not stirred

**Characters:  
Peter 'Sealand' Kirkland  
Paula 'Wy' Delprat  
Tino 'Finland' ****Väinämöinen**  
 **Berwald 'Sweden'** **Oxenstierna**  
 **Arthur 'England' Kirkland  
** **Gilbert 'Prussia' Bielschmidt  
** **Jett 'Australia' Kirkland  
** **Ivan 'Russia' Braginsky**

 **Pairings; Hanatamago family (SuFin), Phony Nations, SeaWy, British Family, past hate!RuFin**

 **Summary; Peter is sneaking into the World Meeting, as usual**

 **Note;** _italics_ **refer to something being sung**

* * *

 **Outside the World Meeting, Australia**

Peter ducks behind the plant, dragging Paula with him. Paula whines, pulling her sleeve out of his grip. It's bad enough he's dragged her along on this bullshit, but he insisted she wear all black and let him lead.

"What are we doing here?" she asks, stroking her sleeve back into shape.

Peter shushes her loudly.

Paula sighs, and hisses; "Why. The fuck. Are. We here."

"Isn't it obvious?" Peter hisses back.

"Squatting next to a spider plant?"

"Well… yes…"

"Okay. Why the fuck are we squatting next to a spider plant?"

"We're sneaking into the World Meeting."

"Oh. Of course."

Peter peers over the plant pot, scanning the reception. "All clear."

He stands, seizing Paula by the arm and dragging her past the reception desk and through the side door. Paula whines. She'd only just got her sleeve back in shape, dammit!

The pair burst through the door, into another hallway. From there, Peter half-leads, half-drags Paula down the hallway and around the corner, coming to a halt in front of a pair of double doors.

"We're here!" Peter whispers.

"Where?" Paula asks, and Peter shushes her.

"The meeting room. Now, we just need to hide somewhere…"

Peter looks around. The hallway is plain, only an assortment of paintings decorating the walls. No potted plants, no furniture, no random sculptures. Nowhere to hide.

Heavy footsteps come up the hallway towards them, accompanied by a joyus Finnish voice chattering about sweets and puppies and his son, accompanied by an occasional grunt from the the Finn's partner.

Peter opens the door quickly, diving through and ducking under the table, Paula a split second behind him.

The nations stare at Tino and Berwald as they arrive. Their arrival has been strangely noisy today.

"Morning, Tino, Berwald," Arthur greets in his usual too-polite manner. Peter mimics him under his breath, and Paula has to hold in her laughter.

"Good morning," Tino says. His beaming smile radiates through the table.

"How's Peter?" Arthur asks.

"Like you actually fucking care, wanker," Peter mutters.

"Oh, he's been on his best behaviour recently," Tino chatters as he and Berwald take their seats, "He's back home. I left Gilbert babysitting."

"Gilbert?"

"Yes. I know he's a little excitable, but he's surprisingly good with kids. Especially now he can't come to the meetings anymore." Tino is secretly the most passive aggressive little shit in all of Hetalia.

"You mean… that Gilbert over there?"

Paula peers through the legs of the chair. Gilbert sits at the Phony Nations Table, idly fashioning a sword out of Lego.

"If Gilbert's over there…" Tino says, "And we're over here… then who the hell is watching Peter?!"

Berwald grunts, and shuffles. His phone pings as he unlocks it, then pings some more as he flicks through the apps.

Several seconds of silence. And then;

" _Long ago in days of yore, it all began with a god named Thor_ ," Peter's phone buzzes in his pocket.

Berwald ducks under the table, eyes wide in a disappointed fatherly glare. Peter and Paula scream, and Paula crawls away towards the door. Berwald scoops Peter up, and Arthur catches Paula as she breaks out from under the table.

The pair stand side by side next to the Phony Nations Table, Gilbert dragged by Berwald to stand next to Peter. Tino stands opposite them, arms folded.

"I am **so** disappointed in you all!" he scolds, "Gilbert!"

Gilbert flinches.

"You were supposed to be babysitting!"

Gilbert mumbles a mediocre apology.

"Paula! I thought better of you."

"Peter brought me," Paula pouts, "I was just here for something to do."

"Still further than I ever got on a stealth mission," Jett comments. Arthur smacks him around the head.

"And **Peter** ," Tino spits, and Peter flinches, "What do you think you're doing here?"

Peter shrugs.

"And dragging Paula along with you!"

"She didn't **have** to come with me!" Peter whines.

"Don't argue with me, young man!"

"You asked!"

"You're grounded!"

Peter whines.

"Get out! All three of you!"

Gilbert practically runs out of the door, Paula after him. Peter slinks out, dragging his feet and pouting.

Outside, Gilbert leans against the wall, evening out his breathing. "Shit, Sea. Your Mama Finn scares the living fuck out of me."

"He's not **that** scary."

"You haven't seen him in battle. He scared Russia. He kicked Russia's ass. On more than one occasion. He's scary."

"Where do we go now?" Paula asks.

"I don't know, you're the one who lives here," Peter says.

"Let's just stay in the building," Gilbert says, "Sea's already grounded, and I don't want Mama Finn hunting me down."

"Wimp," Peter mutters, heading back towards the reception.

Gilbert, despite Peter's whining to go somewhere else, drags the pair to the building cafeteria. Peter begrudgingly looks over the menu, dropping it as the waitperson arrives.

"Vanilla float, please," he orders, "Shaken, not stirred."

* * *

 **Based on a prompt from Zho500; "Could you do a chapter involving Sealand sneaking into a meeting and getting scolded as usual".  
*Jazz hands*  
I was trying to go for a Bond theme but it didn't work out very well. Probably because I'm not a huge fan of the Bond films...**

 **Song referenced is "Ikea" by Jonathan Coulton**

 **I own nothing  
Tbh I'm kinda scared of Mama Finn  
-Laurel Silver**


	33. The Spaghetti Men

**Characters;  
Chuckie 'Sealand' Kirkland  
Taisto 'Finland' Väinämöinen  
Susan 'Sweden' ****Oxenstierna**  
 **Lorenzo 'Veneziano' Vargas (bad mouthed brunet)**  
 **Flavio 'Romano' Vargas (bottle blond)  
**

 **Pairings; Hanatamago family (SuFin), Italian brothers.**

 **Summary; Chuckie won't eat his food**

 **AU; 2p!talia, human**

 ** _Warning_ ; horror, gore and mentioned cannibalism. It's not a funny or silly chapter, if you're squeamish there's a double update today so just skip on to the next chapter, don't worry about it.**

* * *

You are welcome to grizzly tales for gruesome kids; a series of cautionary tales for lovers of squeam.

Have you ever wondered where spaghetti comes from? Chuckie knows. But Chuckie couldn't tell you if he tried.

About a year ago, a warehouse near where Chuckie used to live suddenly started to come alive at night. Inside, a machine whirred and pounded, creaked and sliced, beeped and stretched. The warehouse would smell strongly of flour and baking and blood. Children across the city began to go missing, one by one by one.

Chuckie was a six year old boy back then, living with his parents. His father, Taisto, was a quiet man who kept to himself and ignored Chuckie and his wife as best he could. His 'mother', known as Susan, was constantly exasperated by Chuckie's refusal to eat anything he cooked.

"One of these days," he scolded, "The Spaghetti Men will come and they'll mash you down into pasta."

"The Spaghetti Men aren't real!" Chuckie yelled, and threw his plate of fresh meatballs across the room. The food hit the kitchen window and slid down, the plate breaking on the floor.

Taisto just ignored them both.

In the warehouse, the machine beeped, and a man laughed.

The following day, Taisto ducked out of the house to work before the Terrible Breakfast Spiel of the day.

Chuckie sat at the table, arms folded, butter and jam smacked to the floor. "I don't want toast!" he shouted, "I don't like it! I don't ever want to eat yucky toast again!"

"You ate it yesterday!" Susan said.

"I don't care! I'm going to sit here until you make me something else!"

"You'll be sitting there a very long time then!"

Chuckie harrumphed. Susan ignored him, cleaning up the floor and fetching himself a book to read.

And there they sat, all day long. The lunch Susan prepared was launched across the kitchen table, splattering the cupboards, and Susan spent all afternoon cleaning it up. The dinner put down as Taisto arrived home was sent flying as Chuckie kicked the table over.

Taisto stood, heading for the living room, leaving Susan to clean up. Chuckie remained seated, arms folded and pout heavy on his face.

The sun set. In the warehouse, the machine roared to life, it's two keepers scuttling about. One, a bad mouthed brunet, dropped some 'ingredients' into the gaping mouth of the machine, and screams filled the warehouse. The other, a bottle blond, waved a joyous farewell to his brother and slipped out the door.

Taisto beckoned for Susan to follow him to the living room, take-away menu rolled up in his hand. Susan left the kitchen. Left Chuckie sat there. All alone.

Chuckie seized the opportunity. He slid off his chair, legs numb after sitting all day, and kicked his way through the mess on the floor. He stuffed pieces of carrots into the sink plughole and drain, and turned the tap on full blast. He climbed up onto the counter and opened all the cupboards, pulling out everything inside and throwing it all on the floor. Tins and jars, pots and pans, spices and a large bag of penne pasta.

As the sink began to spill over, the kitchen door creaked open. Chuckie turned, proud of his handiwork.

"What now, mother?" he jeered, smirking. But his mother was not there. The kitchen was empty, aside from him.

Chuckie slid off the counter, frowning in confusion. A strong smell of flour clung to the air, but Chuckie hadn't thrown any flour. Chuckie's mother didn't like baking, so there wasn't any flour in the kitchen.

The smell grew stronger, almost like walking into a bakery. But the smell had a strange, metallic undertone that Chuckie didn't recognise.

"Mother?" Chuckie called.

Susan didn't respond.

Large bootprints formed in the mess on the kitchen floor, trekking from the door up to Chuckie. A snort, and flour blew in Chuckie's face. Chuckie coughed, sneezed, and passed out.

When he woke up, Chuckie was in a room full of other children. Signs hung around the children's necks. Tall, thin children has a picture of spaghetti. Round children had macaroni pieces. Tiny children, some tots, had little pasta shells.

Chuckie looked down at his sign. "Lasagne!" he yelled in disgust, "Yuck! I hate lasagne! It is the worst food of all the foods ever!"

"Oh is it?" a voice asked. The brothers stood at the door. The brunet brother had spoken. His brown suit was stained with red, and his mouth was stretched back into a permanent smirk.

"Yes!" Chuckie shouted, "Even my mother's shitty meatballs were better than any lasagne!"

"Bad mouthed, noisy and he doesn't eat his food?" the blond brother commented. He was much cleaner, a flour-like white powder clung to his pale suit. "How delicious."

"Who the fuck are you two?!" Chuckie demanded.

"We're the Spaghetti Men," the brunet said, "And you really should have eaten your food.

The machine pounded and whirred and screamed loudly, and the metallic smell of blood grew stronger in the warehouse.

A year has passed since then. Several more children went missing, and then the warehouse emptied as suddenly as it was filled. The Spaghetti Men and the children they took were never seen or heard from again, and the smell of flour and baking and blood vanished with them.

Taisto noticed that mealtimes grew quieter, but never noticed why. And Susan never told him why, because Taisto never asked what had changed.

"Welcome home, dear," Susan twitters, "Are you hungry?"

Taisto just nodded.

"Good. Because I've made a nice, big lasagne!"

Somewhere far away, the Spaghetti Men laugh, and their latest 'ingredient' screams.

* * *

 **"Laurel! Why have you written a _horror_ chapter in a _comedy/fluff_ series?!"  
Short answer; because I'm a tit.**

 **Long answer; "Grizzly Tales for Gruesome Kids" is a children's television series that aired in the UK in the early 00's. This is based on a real episode of it.  
The opening lines (names changed to fit the characters) were said by "Uncle Grizzly", a claymation character whom owned the "Squeam Screen" cinema. He would play the episode in this cinema for a claymation boy who would idly eat bugs. The episodes were 'saved' on film reels, poorly animated, and all completely narrated by Uncle Grizzly. At the end of the episode, Uncle Grizzly would summarise the moral of the episode, this one being "eat your food", for his pet spider Spindleshanks, whom he would regularly scare and abuse.  
Other episodes involved children being stuffed and sold ("be nice to your toys"), having pieces of their tongues cut out ("don't be rude"), being eaten alive by a crocodile ("be nice to your nanny/babysitter") and made to go to school in only a blanket ("don't be a spoiled brat").  
The episodes are available on Kiss Cartoon and YouTube, but some of them are strangely cut so Uncle Grizzly and Spindleshanks don't feature, or the end credits also features advertisements from CITV, the channel is was aired on.  
I think I _intended_ to make the chapter funny, but I don't remember how. Just have this instead.**

 **I own nothing, not Hetalia, not Grizzly Tales for Gruesome Kids, not CITV.  
I really want a lasagne now  
-Laurel Silver**


	34. An American and a Lawyer

**Characters;  
Arthur 'England' Kirkland (the lawyer)  
Alfred F. 'America' Jones (the American)**

 **Pairings; N/A**

 **Summary; It's a long flight from London to New York. An American wants to sleep, but a lawyer wants to play a game.**

* * *

Arthur shoves his briefcase into the overhead luggage, and looks down at the seat he's been assigned. Leant on the window is a young blond man, half asleep.

The blond wakes fully as Arthur slumps down. "Wha…"

"Good morning!" Arthur greets noisily. The blond winces, holding his head.

"Yeah, morning," the blond mumbles. He's American, decked out in a superhero shirt. He takes his glasses off, rubbing his eyes.

"Are you alright, lad?"

"Yeah, just didn't sleep last night."

"That was a silly thing to do," Arthur says, "Are you heading home?"

"Yeah, at last."

"I'm headed for work. New job at a New York law firm."

"That's real neato, buddy."

"Long flight, though."

"It's definitely gonna be."

"Would you like to play a game?"

"What?" the American frowns, "No thanks, I'm tired."

"C'mon, it'll be fun."

The American ignores him, turning back to window and making himself comfortable.

"I ask you a question, and if you don't know the answer, you pay me five dollars, and vice versa," Arthur says.

"No thanks, buddy."

Arthur pulls a face. How rude. "Okay, if you don't know the answer you pay me five dollars, and if I don't know the answer, I will pay you five hundred dollars."

This catches the American's attention and, figuring there will be no end to this torment unless he plays, agrees to the game.

"What's the distance from the earth to the moon?" Arthur asks, smirking like an arsehole.

The American doesn't say a word, reaches into his wallet, pulls out a five dollar bill and hands it to the lawyer.

"Okay" says Arthur, "your turn."

The American asks the lawyer, "What goes up a hill with three legs and comes down with four legs?"

Arthur, puzzled, takes out his mobile and searches all his references, but finds no answer. He searches the net and the library of congress, but finds no answer. Frustrated, he sends messages to all his friends and coworkers, but finds no answer. Meanwhile, the American is fast asleep.

An hour from New York, Arthur wakes the American, and hands him five hundred dollars.

The American says, "Thank you," and turns back to get some more sleep.

Arthur, more than a little miffed, wakes the American and asks, "Well, what's the answer?"

Without a word, the American reaches into his wallet, hands the lawyer five dollars, and goes back to sleep.

* * *

 **Based on one of my favourite jokes "The Blonde and the Lawyer"**

 **I own nothing  
Whoo double updates!  
-Laurel Silver**


	35. Never

**Characters:  
Prussia  
Canada  
Australia  
England  
Scotland (Australia's uncle)  
Germany (the host country)  
Ireland**

 **Pairings; British Empire**

 **Summary; Prussia makes a grave mistake**

* * *

 _Just before a world meeting, Germany_

Prussia stands, greeting the nations with a hostly grin, letting others greet him first and following their lead in bowing or kissing or shaking hands.

"America!" he pulls his Western friend into a hug, "So glad you could make it!"

"Uh…" his friend says quietly, "I'm Canada, actually."

"Oh, shit, I'm so sorry!"

"It's okay," Canada says, "At least you saw me, eh?"

"I'll make it up to you. Beers on me, yeah?"

Canada grins. He's never going to pass up on free beer.

"Did I hear free alcohol?" Australia chimes.

Prussia laughs. "Not for you, Aussie."

"Aw…"

"You're as much of a tightwad as your bloody uncle," England tuts, flicking Australia's ear.

"Nah, I just like booze. And I can actually handle it, unlike some of us."

England smacks Australia around the head.

Prussia greets England with a forcibly polite handshake. "So good of you to make it."

"Never expected the great Prussia to be on door duty," England comments, and Prussia's grip on his hand tightens, "The host country's busy inside, I presume?"

"Yes, he likes to keep himself busy," Prussia says, "And I haven't seen a lot of nations in a while. Works out well, really."

The front doors to the building open hurriedly, a red-headed woman practically falling inside. "Fucking Europe with your fucking cheap booze and your fucking drivers on the wrong fucking side and your fucking coffee fucking fuck!"

Australia and Canada giggle.

Prussia helps her up with a grin. She brushes herself down, skirt-suit wonky and hair sticking up all which ways. Prussia recognises her, but only vaguely.

"Long trip?" he asks warmly.

"Nah. Long morning."

Prussia laughs. "Well, I suppose Britain isn't all that far off Europe, is it?"

"Oh _shit_ ," England hisses, biting his knuckle with a grin of anticipation.

The woman looks up at Prussia, round face freckled and eyes burning with anger. And in that second, Prussia remembers the face, freckles hidden under smeared blood, the whites of her eyes flickering in the battle torches, sword glinting in the sunlight. Ireland.

Prussia did not attend the world meeting. Ireland did, hungover killed off with a 'sudden' stress release.

Never call Ireland British. Ever.

* * *

 **Holy shit nation names!**

 **Irish people really don't like being called British. Don't call them British.**

 **Random headcannons of the day;  
Australia and Canada are Good Friends (TM)  
Ireland swears a lot. It gets worse when she's hungover or ill.  
Ireland handles alcohol well, but gets killer hangovers.  
Ireland used to be a knight. She and Hungary bond over it.  
Ireland hates coffee. Tea is where it's at.  
Prussia and Germany make an awesome team when they try.  
England is ridiculously passive aggressive, especially towards past enemies.  
Australia is an unofficial back-up member of the Awesome Trio.  
**

 **I own nothing  
-Laurel Silver**


	36. Here, lads

**Characters:  
Erin 'Republic of Ireland' O'Murcadh  
Arthur 'England' Kirkland  
Alistair 'Scotland' Kirkland**

 **Pairings; British Isles Siblings**

 **Summary; Alistair and Arthur are meant to be meeting with Erin, but Erin is nowhere to be seen.**

* * *

 _Kildare, Ireland, outside Erin's house_

Arthur stamps his feet, straining to keep the umbrella held up. The rain beats down, the pathway covered in half an inch of water and rising. With every stamp, water splashes up the inside of Arthur's other leg and onto Alistair's boots.

Alistair smacks the side of his phone again, swearing. "It's this fucking cold, I tell thee."

"Or maybe it's your shitty phone," Arthur grumbles.

"Well _maybe_ if you ever remembered to charge your fucking phone, you'd be the one calling her and I'd be the one hogging the brolly."

"Not my fault your fat arse doesn't fit!"

Alistair kicks water up at him, splashing the front of both of their legs.

"You _bastard-_ "

Alistair cuts Arthur off with a cheer. "We're on! Hang about- she's rung me."

"Ring her back!" Arthur hisses.

"She left a message."

Arthur groans.

The phone beeps, and Alistair smacks it again. It chimes, and the volume increases sharply as Alistair puts it on speaker.

" _You have a new message_ ," the automated woman says.

"Yep, saw the notification," Alistair grumbles.

"Here lads," Erin's recorded voice comes from the phone, "I'm not fucking doing this today. I said "Fuck it, I'm staying in bed." Fucking Monday got to me, you know yourself. Don't bother trying to get in, you'll only look like a gobshite."

Dial tone.

Alistair laughs out loud. "Fair play. Fucking… fair play."

* * *

 **Based on a closed sign put in the window of a shop in Ireland. Link in the profile.**

 **When its cold and/or raining hard, my phone refuses to work. I was once lost in the pouring rain and couldn't call the place I was trying to get to for an interview because my phone was too wet to work.  
Was still somehow on time for the interview. Didn't get it though, which I was rather disappointed about. Oh well, their loss.**

 **Random headcannons;  
I've already mentioned my "Erin had terrible hangovers" headcannon. This is another example.  
She also hates Mondays.  
Especially if those Mondays involve talking to England. That's the last bloody thing you could want.  
Alistair can be a bit of a typical old man when it comes to technology. Automated phone systems that require voice commands really annoy him, because they never work right for him. Systems like Siri also don't work for him, but he enjoys asking them ridiculous things in a thick accent just to see what it thinks he's saying.**

 **I own nothing, not even a reasonable update schedule  
-Laurel Silver**


	37. Have some toast

**Characters:  
Arthur 'England' Kirkland  
Alistair 'Scotland' Kirkland  
Dylan 'Wales' Kirkland  
Alfred 'America' Jones  
Jett 'Australia' Cook  
Lars 'Netherlands' de Jong**

 **Pairings; British family, British Empire family, NedUK**

 **Summary; Arthur is crying, Alistair is a prick, Jett is an (attempted) hero**

* * *

Arthur curls up under the table, sobbing. Alistair stretches his legs, casually kicking his feet up on Arthur's side. Arthur yelps, rolls, and continues to cry.

"You're really not helping," Dylan scolds.

"I'm not trying to help, that's why," Alistair says.

"Get your feet off him."

Alistair sighs dramatically, putting his feet back on the floor. He pushes his chair out, grabs a plate and leans down. "Here, Artie. Get up and have a slice of toast with us."

Arthur howls, and Dylan throws a plum at Alistair.

"What? We've got butter, we've got jam, we've got that peanut butter Alfred sends us, we've got honey," Alistair points to the condiments dotted around the table, "We've got chocolate spread, we've even got dripping! We've got _everything_ you could possibly want on a slice of toasted bread!"

"Alistair!" Dylan snaps.

"Sorry, sorry. _Practically_ everything you could want on a slice of toasted bread."

Arthur whines.

"We are, sadly," Alistair pauses dramatically, "Missing just one thing. One thing close to all our hearts. Or a million miles away from it."

"Alistair…" Dylan repeats.

"'Cause you either love it or you hate it, you know?"

"We got the joke, Ali, stop it!"

The window crashes, glass raining over the table, and Arthur jumps up, grabbing a butter knife to defend himself with.

Jett stands, chunk of glass sticking out of his shoulder.

"We have a door, lad," Alistair says.

"I'm here to save the day!" Jett yells. Sometimes you can really tell he's related to Alfred.

"From what?" Arthur asks tiredly.

Jett holds up the jar victoriously. Arthur, without stopping to read it, snatches the jar and tears it open. He digs in the knife, and smears the dark, thick contents over his toast.

Arthur takes a huge crunch of a bite, munching loudly. He pauses. "This isn't marmite, is it?"

"No," Jett says, "Why the fuck would I have marmite?"

Arthur sighs, "Did you bring tea, though?"

"Nah, fuck tea."

"We're all out of tea, y'see," Alistair says, and Dylan glares at him, "Could you run down the shop and grab us some?"

"You don't need to, Jett, have some toast," Dylan says.

"P-G-tips," Alistair says.

"I've never heard of it, but okay," Jett says with a grin.

Dylan growls under his breath as Arthur starts sobbing again. Jett frowns at his Dad.

"This marmite thing's really got to him, hasn't it?" Jett asks.

"He loves himself some marmite," Alistair says, "I, for one, prefer good old bovril."

"I thought you were more of a mustard man," Dylan says sweetly.

"Mustard's got fuck all to do with marmite and bovril."

"Colman's, I think."

"What's your point, Dilly?"

"That's been pulled too."

Alistair stares at Dylan, slack jawed. "What?"

"Enjoy your sarnies without mustard. Oh, and no more viennetta."

"What are you both talking about?" Jett says.

"And no more Ben and Jerry's. It's not just the marmite."

Arthur sobs into his toast.

"What the actual fuck?" Jett asks loudly.

Alistair stares into his mug, then looks up at Arthur. "Which one of us is boning Lars for viennetta?"

"What the _fuck_?!"

* * *

 **You're possibly wondering what the hell this about.  
Basically, this week a Dutch-British manufacturing company called Unilever has got into an argument with British supermarkets (starting with Tesco and spreading to other chains) over prices.  
Because the value of the pound has fallen so much, Unilever is making less money, so wants to charge more in Britain. But supermarkets don't want to pay more, as they would have to raises prices which is bad business.  
Unilever has since refused to make deliveries to Tesco, and Tesco has pulled Unilever products from its shelvers.  
Twitter got into a tizz over marmite, owned by Unilever, no longer being available at Tesco, and #marmitegate was the top trending twitter hashtag for a solid two hours. Seriously.**

 **Marmite is a yeast extract.  
Vegemite is also yeast extract, but saltier and usually mixed with more spices a harsher flavour.  
Bovril is beef essence. Yep.  
Dripping is animal fat.  
Colman's is a mustard brand.  
PG Tips is a brand of tea.  
Viennetta is churned icecream layerd with chocolate.  
Ben and Jerry's is a chunky ice cream brand.**

 **I've been working on this story for my local news station all day, forgive me  
I own nothing, and I do not claim to own any of the brands mentioned  
-Laurel Silver**


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